Escape From Reality
No sooner had we escaped our household zoo for a brief two-night getaway alone, than my daughter's text brought us back to reality. "Awkward," the message read with the following picture attached:
As for me, the 'embarrass your teenage daughter' look was the only option and seemed most appropriate under the circumstances. A black strappy sports bra and hot pink plaid hipster underwear with silver threading would certainly complement this minivan mom of four's pasty white belly! Like Tina Fey in 'Date Night', hipster panties had to be long enough to cover my C-section scar. Decades since I'd bravely sported a bikini in public, I was hardly recognizable in my undercover disguise, minus the wig.
Toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, contact solution, and Sutter Home twist off wine and we were back in action, college style, minus the debt and condoms.
Our tattered overnight bag from my college years abandoned on our front porch, stared back at me like an erect middle finger to the face. Sipping a glass of overpriced cabernet I flipped my phone for my husband to read as the server walked away with our order. "Probably safe on our stoop without an Amazon package label," I muttered.
I inventoried the contents of the bag in my head... contact case, toothbrush, swimsuit, clothing... what else? I laughed, hoping Bruce would not take the news hard. Who could blame him for leaving the black zippered duffel on our front porch? We had to get the hell outta Dodge before Grandma, tough as nails, changed her mind!
Shaking his head in frustration, "It's only a two hour drive there and back. I'll go home first thing in the morning," he said.
White crystals fell quietly outside as I gazed out the window at twinkling red and green store front lights and old fashioned garland wrapped street lights. Peaceful empty tire tracks in the snow reminded me we had no agenda. We had momentarily escaped the schizophrenic hormones and schedules of our family circus into an alternate reality.
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My 16-year-old's stress that afternoon was a 5-alarm fire, as she navigated friendships on social media, yelled at her brothers to get the heck out of the living room, and furiously practiced her violin audition, due the very hour we left for Hood River. A steaming teakettle ready to blow, she feigned a smile 'Snapchatting' she would meet them in an hour, mounted her iPhone on the stand to press record, and hastily kissed us good-bye. Picking up her bow and violin, she sawed away as my mother, speechless for the first time in her life, stared blankly at the pages of her book on the sofa and I backed away, carefully shutting the front door.
Safely buckled in the minivan out of teenager harm's way, I breathed in for five, and out for seven, summoning yoga mindfulness, watching Bruce return inside briefly before shutting the trunk. Cursing the 'on again off again friend' who bitch-texted our daughter for having no free time, he thrust himself into the driver's seat and started the ignition. A man not easily upset by our princesses' antics, I sat in silence observing his transformation. "She has no time to breathe," he said shaking his head. Just breathe, I coached myself, we're free now.
Passing frozen cliffs of the Columbia Gorge on I-84, I spotted waterfall after waterfall pouring over, breaking through the ice, as I stared out the window. Wind tunnel gales shook our minivan and a high-pitch teakettle whistling eerily interrupted the captive silence. "Our car shouldn't be making a whistling sound should it? Is your window cracked?" I said. The sky had fallen dark by 4:30pm this first day of December, and the temperature dropped as we headed east, wound tight by teenage emotions.
Passing frozen cliffs of the Columbia Gorge on I-84, I spotted waterfall after waterfall pouring over, breaking through the ice, as I stared out the window. Wind tunnel gales shook our minivan and a high-pitch teakettle whistling eerily interrupted the captive silence. "Our car shouldn't be making a whistling sound should it? Is your window cracked?" I said. The sky had fallen dark by 4:30pm this first day of December, and the temperature dropped as we headed east, wound tight by teenage emotions.
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"It's a gift," I interrupted, staring back across the restaurant table, "this was meant to happen!" A divine twist of fate perhaps? "Remember when we backpacked from hostel to hostel in Europe pre-kids, pre-money, pre-adulting? It'll be fun!"
Our hipster hotel for the next two nights, like a hostel in Europe with shared bathrooms, also had a hot tub, sauna and pool, a luxurious escape from reality and every parent's dream.
Our hipster hotel for the next two nights, like a hostel in Europe with shared bathrooms, also had a hot tub, sauna and pool, a luxurious escape from reality and every parent's dream.
Gripping the neck of his microbrew, Bruce insisted on the quick trip home before I woke up the next morning.
"Where's your sense of adventure?" I said. Imagining an alternate clandestine reality I lived before children when clever tactics and role-play were non-fiction; I was eager to escape.
"Remember when the Griswolds shopped for clothes in Italy after their luggage was stolen? Wal-Mart in Hood River is a close second!" I laughed. Google mapping the closest superstore, I knew we had precious time left and skinny-dipping was out of the question.
Where are all the swimsuits in December? Improvising in the teen section, I chose a size 18 baggy pair of long-gray gym shorts for Bruce, with gang slang down the leg. Gold chains and tattoos would've been full on gansta!
"Where's your sense of adventure?" I said. Imagining an alternate clandestine reality I lived before children when clever tactics and role-play were non-fiction; I was eager to escape.
"Remember when the Griswolds shopped for clothes in Italy after their luggage was stolen? Wal-Mart in Hood River is a close second!" I laughed. Google mapping the closest superstore, I knew we had precious time left and skinny-dipping was out of the question.
Where are all the swimsuits in December? Improvising in the teen section, I chose a size 18 baggy pair of long-gray gym shorts for Bruce, with gang slang down the leg. Gold chains and tattoos would've been full on gansta!
 |
| (No one would notice my sagging tits beneath my double chin in this XL bikini bottom, the only thing left on the rack.) |
Toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, contact solution, and Sutter Home twist off wine and we were back in action, college style, minus the debt and condoms.
Checking into 'The Society Hotel' clutching tennis shoes and a brown Wal-Mart bag, Bruce and I exchanged a smile, daring them to ask us if we needed help with our luggage.
Dumping the contents of our shopping spree onto the bed, I tore off the new Wal-Mart tags with clenched teeth, praying my 'swimsuit' would hold up in the hot tub and not sag like a middle-aged mom in cheap panties. Luckily there were plush bathrobes for the icy cold walkway to the steamy bathhouse. I swallowed my pride, thankful it was not peak season and for cheap wine to take the edge off.
You only live once, I reminded myself, stripping off the hotel robe, bearing all. Like a dime store hooker, I sauntered into the steaming hot tub to my baby daddy. "It looks like a swimsuit," Bruce smiled. I had little choice but to play the part.
Dumping the contents of our shopping spree onto the bed, I tore off the new Wal-Mart tags with clenched teeth, praying my 'swimsuit' would hold up in the hot tub and not sag like a middle-aged mom in cheap panties. Luckily there were plush bathrobes for the icy cold walkway to the steamy bathhouse. I swallowed my pride, thankful it was not peak season and for cheap wine to take the edge off.
You only live once, I reminded myself, stripping off the hotel robe, bearing all. Like a dime store hooker, I sauntered into the steaming hot tub to my baby daddy. "It looks like a swimsuit," Bruce smiled. I had little choice but to play the part.
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"Grandma's cookies definitely give me diarrhea, ha!" my daughter texted Tuesday, followed by "When are you getting home?" and "What's for dinner?"
Wearing three-day-old clothes, my husband in his usual unassuming fleece, we headed back to reality, a boring married couple with four kids from Oregon. I'll admit I wanted to escape, flee responsibility, and with our brown Wal-Mart bag in the trunk, we had all we needed.
Wearing three-day-old clothes, my husband in his usual unassuming fleece, we headed back to reality, a boring married couple with four kids from Oregon. I'll admit I wanted to escape, flee responsibility, and with our brown Wal-Mart bag in the trunk, we had all we needed.
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