Divorcemoon
So you’re going to Costa Rica for two weeks? Have fun. A cruise along Mexico? Bon voyage. Touring Europe for the summer? Good for you.
As for me, my life is a vacation. Nothing glamorous or 5-star, of course. More like a cross between yurt camping, a business trip to Des Moines, and an overpriced rental house that advertises beachside but ends up being 50 fucking blocks from the ocean.
It wasn’t always this way. It took a lot of avoiding problems and ignoring shit to turn the American dream into a whitetrash getaway. First, I had to get rid of my husband, who was always wondering why I never got anything done and asking when I was going to get dressed. Then I had to leave the 4,000 square foot house that came with the chores of home ownership and hassles of lawn maintenance and move into a rented apartment that comes with a team of nice maintenance guys who apparently even change light bulbs. Then I had to trade all my neurotic hang-ups and feelings of inadequacy for some sunglasses and carefree functional alcoholism.
Ahhhh. It feels great to just get away from it all.
Now, I can always find some excuse to screw the diet and eat too much food that someone else prepared.
There are beers at the playground, Mike’s Hard Lemonade sneaked into the pool in water bottles, and champagne just because.
There are dirty little children crashed out in my sandy bed.
There’s showering only when I need to wash off sunscreen or go to a meeting. A huge pile of flip flops and sandals by the front door. And sniffing clothes from the floor to see if they’re clean—or at least clean enough.
There’s the hot random vacation sex with a guy I’ll never have to see again. And the quick trip to the clinic for a herpes culture three days later.
No vacation is perfect.
I might have an occasional breakdown, crying on the floor that I just want to go home. And there’s a growing list of to-dos that I’ll have to take care of when I get back. But I’m making the most of it.
At the bar last night, I hired a friend to come clean this hog’s mess and then I signed up for grocery delivery. It’s not the same as daily maid service and cooked bacon showing up at my door in the morning: this is a poor-ass vacation, and one I can’t cut short when I run out of money.
Anyhow, I forgot to pack a razor or a bra and the weather sucks and I lost my credit card again, but we’re having a great time! It turns out, honeymoons are better with the kids and without the husband. I’ll send postcards via Facebook mobile uploads. Don’t you wish you were here?
