<
Summer plans haven 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 transportation, I may never 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 clamboring 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.
