My husband and I aren’t the sort of people who feel
compelled to take two weeks out of our summer in order to get away from it all. We’ve designed our lives as if we’re taking a
permanent vacation. Sure, we work – a
lot – but our work doesn’t necessarily feel like work, so we’re really not that
concerned with an annual escape.
An occasional change of scenery, however, is a good thing,
so I enthusiastically received the news when Mr. Newman informed me a few weeks
ago that we would soon return to our little corner of the Gulf of Mexico. “Clear your schedule,” he simply said.
Mr. Newman makes things happen. His job forces him to travel, whereas mine
pretty much keeps me within a five mile radius of our home. He knew getting out of town for a few days
would prove beneficial to me. He’s aces,
no doubt about it.
The hotel we booked is only 45 minutes from our front door,
so we decided to leave around mid-day. I
vowed to unplug and not think about work-related stuff that morning, but found it
difficult to do so. Without any other
ideas for engagement, I did what many folks do when needing a quick diversion –
I turned on the TV, ‘just to see what’s on’.
In case you’re not aware of it, Sunday morning programming is quite
lacking, to say the least. After several
minutes of channel surfing, I happened upon a reality show starring Wilson
Phillips. I remembered playing their early 90’s anthem Hold On back when I started in radio. It’s a catchy tune, and the fact that they’re
the daughters of 60’s pop royalty adds a certain something to their harmonizing. I didn’t know they had a show, I think to
myself. Why do they have show? I ask
myself. I decide to watch in order to
get an answer to my question.
That question was never answered, so after the third episode
you can imagine my delight when Mr. Newman tells me to get in the car. “We’re leaving,” he announces.
He’s a take-charge kind of guy. I like that about him.
We chat for bit during the drive, and then fall into that
comfortable silence that strikes couples who’ve been together a long time. I begin humming Hold On, and wonder what it would be like to have Alec Baldwin as a
brother-in-law.
We reach our destination, change into our swimsuits, and hit
the pool. Sitting at the pool bar, I
tell him that this is the first trip we’ve taken in a while in which I’m not
obsessing over the well-being of our cats.
Our niece, Stephanie, and her husband recently bought a house in our
neck of the woods. Having them so close
is great. It equals increased family time and,
more importantly, free cat-sitting services.
As a childless woman, the maternal instincts I have are showered upon
our cats. My pride and joy, Kramer, has
entered his second decade, so it’s vital to have someone monitor him on a
regular basis.
“I guess Steph will check on them,” Mr. Newman says
casually.
“Of course she will,” I reply. “Why wouldn’t she? We’ve texted back and forth all weekend about
it.” Stephanie is one of the most
responsible young women I know, yet his comment plants the seeds of uncertainty.
What if
something comes up and she can't check on the cats? I wonder. What
if she forgets? I immediately start
plotting revenge against my niece, who’s never given me any cause to doubt
her.
A second pool-side margarita eases my mind…somewhat.
Anyone who’s married to a full-time musician can attest to
the fact that these guys keep vampire hours.
Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I’m in bed by 9:30 every
night. It’s never a problem at
home. Once I’m in bed, Mr. Newman has
complete control of ‘the downstairs’, as we call it. I don’t know what he does during the night,
but you can bet he’s doing it with gusto. While
traveling, we’re forced to share a single room.
I don’t expect him to adopt my hours while on vacation, and he certainly
doesn’t expect me to adopt his. I fall
asleep as he watches television, and awake around 2am to the sound of rustling.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I need a snack,” he replies.
Vowing to eat healthier while on vacation, I brought goodies
such as trail mix and Annie’s All Natural Graham Cookies. I tell him about the good-for-you-treats in
the bag, and wait for his expression of gratitude. “Nah,” he says. “I want a Snickers bar.” He grabs some change and heads for the vending
machine. Mr. Newman is playing a dangerous game, I think to myself. He comes back to the room, complaining about
the lack of candy in the machine. “Try
one of the graham cookies,” I smugly suggest.
“No, I got some Hostess cupcakes instead.”
We park ourselves under an umbrella on the beach the next
day. Typically, I utilize this time to
collect seashells. As I begin my hunt,
it occurs to me that I’ve more seashells back home than I know what to do
with. Earlier this summer, I tried
pawning them off to my young fashionistas during fashion camp when we made jewelry. “Don’t you have any
beads, Miss Beth?” one student
inquired. “Come on, use your imagination,”
I encouraged her while jotting down the word smarty-pants next to her name on the class roster. I immediately erased it, though, for she really
did have a point.
Rocks!
Oh-my-goodness, this beach is full of them! Each autumn, I do a bit of landscaping around
the Newman house, and ‘rocks’ topped my already-written list. Why pay $10 a bag a Lowe’s when I can get
them free from Mother Nature? I begin to
fill one of the several bags I’d brought with me. Mr. Newman watches, shaking his head, and
utters what sounds like ‘silly woman’ as I bring my third bag of rocks back to
our spot.
“Shall I rent a trailer to get these back to the room?” he asks.
“No need,” I inform him.
“I can carry them back all by myself.
I like to describe myself as fit and trim, but others have
described me as full-blown scrawny. Yet I
am determined to get those darn rocks back to the hotel room without breaking a
sweat. “I can help you carry those,” Mr.
Newman offers. I really have no choice
but to take him up on it, but only allow him to carry back one bag. I place the other two bags, along with my 20
lb. September edition of Vogue magazine
into my knapsack and begin walking in earnest.
This isn’t so bad, I think, as
I walk toward the steps leading up to Seawall Boulevard. A few short seconds later, I discover that those
steps are brutal when one is carrying her own weight in rocks and magazines,
but I won’t give Mr. Newman the satisfaction of pointing out the obvious
absurdity of it all.
“You’ll thank me when you see what sort of landscaping I can
do with these,” I tell him for no good reason.
“Sure,” he responds.
We stand at the corner, waiting for the okay to cross the
street. I wonder what people around us
must think as they witness a grown woman covered in sand, hunched over and
panting, and the man next to her, whose back could give out at any moment. That is
one lucky woman is what I’d like for them to think, because it’s the truth.
Epilogue: I’m happy to report that Stephanie took excellent
care of Kramer and Tallulah Belle. The ‘must-have’
rocks still sit in the trunk of my car.
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