Suppose you work like a dog, trying desperately to cram three weeks of work into a single week in a pointless attempt to stave off facing six weeks of piled-up work when you get back from your one week holiday feel free to diagram that if you find it confusing.
You rush home on Friday with every intention of sipping several relaxing cocktails only to find yourself up to your neck in a logistical nightmare as you struggle in vain to pack what gives every appearance of being enough gear to launch an Everest expedition.
Halfway through packing which is actually your third attempt to fit 200 pounds of crap into bags with a maximum capacity of 150 pounds your teenage daughter informs you skiing sucks and shes decided to spend the holidays with her best friend whose parents you suspect are swingers and your spouse suspects run a child porn ring out of their basement.
During the course of the ensuing meltdown your younger son manages to mangle three fingers in the trunk youve just sat down hard on hoping to bring the overstuffed sides close enough together to latch, precipitating a trip to Emergency, X-Rays and several splints that clearly call into question his ability to grip a ski pole.
Your flight is of course delayed, which turns out to be fortuitous since youve been randomly selected to be stripsearched, which, to your embarrassment, graphically reveals the fact completely and understandably forgotten in your mad dash to meet the airport limo at 4:30 in the freaking morning you made the unfortunate decision to wear a pair of your wifes underwear since all your clean pairs were packed in the finger-eating trunk.
The airline not only fails to deliver your funked-out, perpetually pouting daughter her requested vegan meal but has only overcooked brown stuff, rumoured to be beef, as an alternative to a 12-hour flight fueled only by pretzels and honey peanuts, but runs out of both liquor and functioning toilets long before you arrive in Vancouver.
Needless to say, the bag containing your ski boots is missing entirely and the finger-eating trunk explodes open in a shower of your clean, male, underwear when it finally hits the baggage carousel which is does long after every other bag on the plane has been delivered and claimed, thus saving you a modicum of further embarrassment.
Which is ladled on you in spades when Customs randomly selects you to stripsearch, for the second time in less than 24 hours, a new, personal best.
You arrive in Whistler, relieved to finally be somewhere youre fairly certain youll only have to disrobe when you feel like it. Of course, it would be nice if your room was ready, which it isnt, being occupied it turns out by the last guest who is frantically trying to pack his own logistical nightmare for the trip home, but at least you can have a drink or six to soothe what you hope is your final barrier to happiness.