Not Realistic

In a week, I will cruising the seven seas with close to thirty woman, most of whom are high school comrades. This year marks thirty-five years since we wore polyester uniforms, were constantly berated by angry nuns, and gathered in the smoking area during lunch. Don’t have premarital sex but please enjoy a cancer stick before you head to Algebra.

Preparing for a trip, in my world, is like juggling with no hands. Seriously. But, I have employed a pet sitting service to help with Daisy while Brian is at work, along with family who will assist with Bailey. My mother will have her caregiver and others who are willing to lend a hand. You would think all of this would make me comfortable, but that won’t happen until I am on the plane headed for a warmer destination. This is my process.

I asked Brian if he would like me to make him a list. It’s funny that he really has no clue what running this small household entails. I do make it look effortless. His response was that I could make the list, but he probably won’t read it. I suppose he simply likes to wing it. Whatever.

My mother is anxious about me departure. This is our dance. I suppose that I am her safety net, which is fine, but having her freaking out on me, doesn’t put me at ease. The other day, I asked her, “Why can’t you simply relax?” Her response was, “I have been this way since I was a child.”. Sometimes my biggest shortcoming is the inability to accept other people’s shortcomings. She simply can’t be at peace while I am gone. Maybe I need to be a little more compassionate about that.

Yesterday, she asked if my cruise was still on since the coronavirus is so prevalent and maybe I should see if there is a vaccine. Christ. On. A. Cracker. I didn’t want to state that influenza cases are much higher that the coronavirus, and that my chances of catching the flu is significantly greater. I merely said that the cruise line was taking all kinds of precautions. I also told her that if I was fearful about everything that would most likely never happen to me, I would be a hostage in my home. She then said, “Thanks for calling.” and proceeded to end our conversation. Oh, well.

Meanwhile, Bailey is over the moon about my impending departure. This will be an amazing opportunity for him to navigate a greater sense of independence and not hear my grating voice. It’s win for both of us.

My home will probably look like a frat house. The last time I went on a cruise with these ladies, there was a stench that no one smelled but me. The reality is I need a reprieve and so do they.

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