This morning my absolutely adorable husband shared with me a wonderful idea he has—a reward for me once this phase of my life is drawn to a close: a quiet getaway, just the two of us—several days, at a cabin in a warm climate. He says I can just vedge—he’ll even do the cooking. He asked me what I thought of the idea.
I know, right? What a dreamboat! Sorry, Ladies: he’s taken.
But, true to form, I messed up the moment. I didn’t even answer the question. He insisted, so I finally said, “Well, it wouldn’t be my favorite…”.
I know, right? What a tard. Sorry, Ladies: I give wives a bad name.
As we talked, it became clear to David that–unlike most folks who’d jump at the chance to get away from projects and people, the idea of doing nothing for a week, to me, is excruciating.
To each his own. So David’s idea of a vacation is different from mine. This is not a news flash. We’re coming up on our 28th anniversary; we figured out long ago that I’m a sanguine and he’s a melancholic; he likes the desert, I like the mountains; he likes sci-fi, I like drama; he likes Canadian bacon, I like pepperoni. But we’re not going to call the whole thing off.
David clarified that his plan also included short hikes, good food, relaxation in the sun… Seriously, that does sound lovely. What’s not to like? I should be counting the days. (But in our particular situation, that would probably not be a good idea.)
As the morning has progressed, I’m actually liking the idea. He probably knows me better than I think he does: once this chapter is over, I probably will go into zombie mode for a couple of days. Why not do it someplace warm?