OK, I know I should just shut up already. I’m going somewhere hot and sunny where drinks are served in coconut shells with little colourful umbrellas and the biggest decisions I’ll have to make are a) to lounge by the pool or the beach, b) which bar to visit and in what order, and c) what restaurant to stuff myself silly at each evening. But seriously, leaving the continent for a week is a great big gigantic pain in my ass. And I’ll tell you why, you unsympathetic so-n-so’s.
1. I hate flying. I used to love it when I was a kid, but that was before I realized that planes can crash. And not only CAN they crash, they DO crash. Not with alarming frequency, but still. I hate the air in planes, I hate the food on board, and I hate being shoehorned into those tiny seats. I always insist on the window so the only person I have to sardine with is my husband. And I don’t even like getting that close to him. I mean really, can they not provide a bit more personal space without charging an arm, leg, and firstborn for it?
2. I hate the airport. I hate getting to the airport, I hate being in the airport. Airport staff are some of the most rude, unfriendly, uncaring people I’ve ever encountered. And that’s on a good day. At least there won’t be snow. YVR tends to go into operational panic mode at the first sign of frost. To make matters worse, we are flying with Scare Canada, where their motto is “We’re not happy until you’re not happy!”
3. I hate packing. I never know what to wear. This time I started packing way early, which was a big mistake. I’ve been rethinking every outfit since then. I actually tore my suitcase apart two days ago and re-tried on everything – and only changed one ensemble. And I’m re-rethinking that one even now (the top I have on today is nice … how would it look with that skirt … hmm ..) I have so far resisted the gravitational pull to Winners to find that perfect tank top-blouse-dress-pair of shoes. I have more clothes than the average supermodel. I don’t need any more. Considering that for 95% of this vacation I will be in a bathing suit, my suitcase is awfully full. Speaking of the bathing suit …
4. I hate wearing bathing suits. I bought two for this trip, and no matter which way I look at it – and I’ve looked at it every which way, from every angle, sucking in what I can – I’m never happy with the way I look. Luckily a few of the women going with us on this trip are also not Twiggy wannabes, so I’m not saddled with that self-imposed competition along with everything else. Of course, the food orgy I’ve been on for the past two weeks hasn’t heped matters. Oh, for the days when a risque bathing suit was one that stopped at the calves instead of at the ankles. But I have to say, with my big floppy black hat and oversized sunglasses, I do look pretty Euro-trashy-chic – from the neck up.
5. I hate, hate, hate leaving my daughter. The resort chosen for this trip – by a friend of my husband’s, who’s getting married – is adults-only, so no K. Which, quite frankly, is fine with me. We’re going to Mexico with my family for Christmas, so it’s not like she never gets to go anywhere. And she’ll have a great time with my parents for the week, where she gets to sleep in late, eat whatever she wants, and dictate the schedule for the day. Kinda sounds like its own all-inclusive resort, doesn’t it? I’ll call it “Grandyland.” But with both me and B out of the country – off the continent, really – and in a third world country this time, I can’t help being anxious. I’ve done everything I can to ensure she’ll be fine. Our wills are done, everyone is aware of our wishes and I spent a thoroughly morbid hour last week writing a letter for my sister detailing down to the last biller the things she’d have to take care if if we … you know. My husband would tell me to stop worrying about something I can’t control. But I CAN control it. By not going.
