Women are grumpier on vacation than men

You've been looking forward to this: finally, you can wear your bikini. Hotel booked. Beach within walking distance. Sun in your face.

Or rather, you forgot to pack that one favorite bikini. That hotel is somewhat disappointing and is quite expensive, as the room is pretty cramped. And the shower is dirty. The beach is a fifteen-minute drive with a van, it turns out. And it's drizzling on day one. Well #%*!(@!)$. Women can be much more grumpy on vacation than men. We get annoyed by little things that don't go exactly as planned. A man can shrug his shoulders and think: then I'll just wear another swimsuit if that one is still at home folded in the closet. We women do not. We women complain until we go home about how great that bikini would have looked in that vacation photo.

But there's more that irritates us there in that holiday resort. You think you're going to relax, but in the meantime, you're just eating yourself up. Women are most annoyed by noise pollution (14 percent), research shows. Those neighbors you suddenly hear having sex or those screaming kids by the pool. Additionally, we find a disappointing location or accommodation just as annoying as noise. We regret our choice: if only we had gone for that cozy little hotel a street further. At least 11 percent of women can't stand seeing pests somewhere. One cockroach certainly doesn't make the summer. In fact: a spider in the bathroom and the holiday home is already no good. Men are less bothered by that; they are more affected by bad weather than by an ant hill. Thirteen percent of men might find it a pity if it unexpectedly rains or is cold. But staying grumpy: that's typically something for women. They can endlessly chat about those clouds in the sky. Men read the newspaper, watch the Tour de France, drink a beer, and no longer know what day it is. Well, there's something to be said for that.

Of course, you can also make the best of it. I can still vividly remember a rainy day in Ibiza. For about six years now, I've been moving for a long weekend, sometimes a sneaky week, to the island of fun with my best friend. We were there, sunscreen on, beach dress on, sparkling flip-flops on our feet – but the sky was ominously gray. Dutch gray. No streak of blue to be seen: that wasn't going to get better today. What were we supposed to do? I won't reveal too many details, but let's just say we started mixing champagne with our orange juice at breakfast. And we didn't stop there. Yes, only when the sun started shining 36 hours later.