With the click of a button, our first three days in Aruba in an Airbnb are booked. This island vacation, set for two months from now, wasn’t even on our radar until two weeks ago when Dave’s sister casually threw out a fly-by invitation to her 40th. The invite was probably offhand because this is just what she does—she travels, with friends. Pre-kids, Dave and I did that sort of thing too, but it’s been half a century—okay, a decade—so the ask caught me off guard.
But the shake-up feels good. After locating our passports in the all-important accordion file, I saw my maiden name and panicked. Thanks to previous painful back-and-forths with the Department of Licensing, Social Security, and the Department of Health, the surge of oh no, my life is over was instant. Dave’s advice, along with every corner of the internet, was to book my plane ticket under my maiden name. And as one wise Reddit commenter put it, “It’ll be eazy peezy.”
Dave had the smart idea to book a few days before his sister arrives. That way, our simple, kitchen-less one-bedroom won’t feel like a downgrade after staying in her MTV Cribs-level palatial palace.
As usual with any trip longer than three days, I’m already panicking about all the living things I’m leaving behind—Archie, the houseplants, the garden. I’ll likely do my usual setup, clustering the plants on the kitchen island with detailed note cards. And since we do have an automatic sprinkler system, maybe it’s time to put that magic to work.
Meanwhile, the outdoor pool, which should be buttoned up and inoperable in February, is fully open for business. And like curious chimpanzees at the glass of a zoo exhibit, Dave, Evelyn, and I found ourselves just staring at it. First, there were hesitant toe-dips. Then, while I was hacking away at a sticker bush, Dave asked, “If I inflated the floatie, would you use it?” That was all the prodding I needed. Within the hour, Evelyn and I were ferrying each other back and forth in it—both of us still in sweatshirts and sweatpants. The icing on the cake? When Dave got in, reinforcing the impressive buoyancy of that floatie, which I will market the crap out of if the company, Jasonwell, ever wants to sponsor me.
From where I sit on the window bench, the glaringly big white wall above our bed mocks me. Does it need a floating shelf? A three-panel canvas? An absurdly large peacock feather display? I have no idea. So instead, I just sit here, staring. So far, the only things on our walls are a mirror and a framed NASA Voyager Golden Record cover.
Alrighty, time to watch the next episode of Vice’s “The Dark Side of Reality TV”. Thanks for dropping by! Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 