I’m a vacation buzzkill

Summer plans have been made, tickets are purchased and luggage is being brought down from the rafters in the garage. None of it by me. I’m not a plan maker, ticket purchaser or luggage-bringer-downer.
 Not that I don’t like vacations. I really do. Once I’m there, sipping a drink with a tiny umbrella in it, inches from my eye, I think, “Wow, this is great. We should do this more often.”
 I’ve only made the mistake of actually voicing that once, and then got an earful about how we could, if I would just stop being….me.
 If it weren’t for The Husband’s love of travel and trasportation, I may not ever take a vacation.
 I can’t seem to wrap my head around leaving everything behind for a week while I frolic in the ocean. Who am I kidding- clumsily clambor up the beach after “swimming” a few feet out, and then crying because something touched my legs.
 Everything that gets left behind will snowball into an avalanche by the time I get back.
 There are routines. These routines must not be altered.
 Not to mention the money. I’d like to have some, one day.
 Our last major vacation was in 2004; a much belated honeymoon, 14 years later, and true to form, I didn’t plan that one either.
 It kind of starts out like the Christmas lights thing. The Husband stares wistfully at travel magazines as we pass the rack in Costco, navigating a cartful of laundry detergent, Hot Pockets and industrial sized shampoo. He then slowly graduates to watching travel shows on PBS.
 He sets me up on the couch- in more ways than one- with a cup of coffee so I’m cozy, and relaxed, and totally unsuspecting of his sudden declaration, “We’re doing this.”
 How did he get the cruise line website pulled up on his phone that fast? He wrestles with email.
 He asks me questions about where I want to go, how long I want to be gone, and what kinds up upgrades I want. Let’s see; home, I don’t, and none.
 Does he have any idea how long we have to work, to cover this thing? This is how I gauge every major purchase. If I have to work X amount of hours to purchase Y, then it equals zero; and if by some miracle, he’s talked me into something that costs money, I figure out how long it will take to recoup the loss and if it’s worth it. It rarely is.
 I feel sort of bad for the guy. I mean, it takes him a long time to convince me to go and have fun, and then there is a fair amount of grumbling along the way, up to and including the day of departure. He placates me with coffee, lively conversation, jokes, books, toys, balloons. I imagine it’s probably like taking a toddler to the park when she’s missed her nap.
 I’m sure in his head, he’s counting down to just getting me there and slapping a drink in my hand -where’s that umbrella?- to keep me quiet. Honestly, I don’t blame him. He’s a good guy. He deserves a trip. So, this time, I’m going to really make an effort to be a good sport and roll with it – until something touches my legs.
 
Email Kelly Sinon at

sk*****@ao*.com