Sometimes You Have to Do That

Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can't sleep with the window open.

George Bernard Shaw

I recently began a story of a trip my husband and I took to Turks and Caicos in March. It was a celebration launch of a new life together as Empty Nesters (even though some of them are still home.) A "loll and bask" on the beach for rest. No movement, just relaxation. Alas, with my husband, little time to laze exists. See here to catch up.

Meanwhile, back at the beach...

After two days of adventure and bumping along dirt roads, I had hopes I could return to the beach outside my motel room door for a day's rest. I knew better. The evening before, we had met a retired couple from Cleveland. While her husband wandered off to snorkel, walk, or whatever, she laid on the beach with her carton of books declaring that for the next three weeks, she was there to read and "rotiss." Her husband could do whatever he wanted.

As I shared my woes of yet another adventure ahead, she nodded, said she'd done that for years. "That sometimes you just have to do that."

I looked at her with envy, wondering if I could leap ahead and join the ranks of the rotisserie vacationers. Then she looked at me and winked. "I don't do that crap anymore. I suggest getting yours trained earlier."

Wish I'd thought of that two days before.

Day Three of Relaxing Vacation brought us to my next chariot. Destination? North and Middle Caicos - reachable only by boat.

I relaxed and enjoyed the ride. A reef surrounds the islands so the ocean is rather calm, rendering a smooth ride through waters like this...

and this...

But I should have known there'd be a catch.

We walked up the plank after landing and passed $75 cash to a Belonger who pointed to a Toyota Corolla with beat to death tires and 175,000 miles. He handed us a map and said to leave the car with the keys in it when we came back to catch the boat. Then he pointed, "Go to the end of this dirt road, take a right on the next dirt road and then a left. That's the main road."
Which was, guess what, another dirt road.


I would have taken photos of the harrier roads, but I was too busy trying to control my heartbeat. That and throw back out the window the debris from the flora that came through as we weaved around craters. (Note to the next traveler - call a few days ahead and reserve a jeep!)


Notice guy below - in hog heaven.














The fun began. Of course we drove, and drove, and drove. Middle Caicos has 200 residents, but the only people we saw were the occasional car filled with a couple or small group from the boat we rode in on. We'd wave.

A shipwrecked Toyota Corolla

I'm not being fair, there were portions of the road that had blacktop. And that road that connects North to Middle Caicos? Yes, there is a road or was a road, before the hurricane took it out a few years back. But no matter, we had a Toyota Corolla with 175,000 miles on it and as long as we didn't go over 5 miles an hour, no problem.

The first beach was easy to find, sort of.


But, you know, can't stay in one place too long. Back in the car and after a few hours of this road and that, I wanted to shoot myself. As beautiful as the place was, I wanted out of the car. No more bumpy roads. I was hungry. I was out of patience. When we followed a dirt road that had a sign that said "To Beach" and we were still on the dirt road after 20 minutes, no beach in site, I spoke.

"I've had enough. I'm done. Take me back the other way."

(Sometimes I think men, or my husband at least, need someone else to give in. They might want to give in, maybe even before the other, but can't until someone else says it.)

My husband's response? "Had enough adventure, have you?" He immediately turned around and headed back across the islands. I choose to believe he shared my pain. On the long ride back to the boat landing, we came across some lovely things like these flamingos.

We turned a corner on a dirt road and came across this incredible restaurant where we ate a lobster sandwich and had warm bread pudding, right out of the oven.
We had two of the local beers and the full attention of the waiter and owner. We were the only ones there.
Of course, we did have to find one more dirt road
Please note even though that looks like a two-lane, it is one, with big rocks in that middle section. I had no idea what we would do if we came across a vehicle coming from the other direction. The gods were with us -- we didn't.

And we found this gorgeous place...

Three Mary Cays

before getting back on the road to catch the boat back to Providenciales.

At days end, we gathered under a shelter to await the arrival of the return boat. Waiting also were several other dusty, travel worn faces. Rejuvenated by the fact that I had declared myself done with adventures and that on the morrow would rotiss in front of our motel and not move, I greeted the weary explorers with a new found zest. "How was everyone's day on the beaten path?" The travel worn group of Canadians and French perked up a bit.

I could tell the difference between those that led the show, like my husband, and those that had chugged along, like myself. I wanted to take their names so I could hook my husband up with the leaders on future trips.

While watching the sun set, we shared tales of what we'd found, or didn't find.

Next day, here I was. Bob had taken the car to find a snorkel place down the road. I'll be damned if only an hour later, I heard the chink of ice in a cooler as it landed beside my chair. Guess who? The perky adventurer found his way back, complete with a six pack of beer. Spent the afternoon sitting next to me. Go figure.

Even though this was a trip to launch our empty nest life together, I'm thinking we're older now. We both have different ideas on how we want to spend our time. Next vacation, like five years from now, I might look into organizing a relaxation trip with about four other people. Surely out of that cluster someone will want to tour dirt roads with Bob.

And I will rotiss.

Defining Stage Right

You can judge your age by the amount of pain you feel when you come in contact with a new idea.

Pearl S. Buck

I have utilized the word Midlife in my blog handle even though I’ve never truly thought of myself as middle-aged. As I flirt with menopause, and the diet and exercise I exert don’t seem to send me to the lower size rack at the department store, my mind seems the same as when I was 28.

Each step of my children’s lives – from the morning I pushed them out of my womb to the afternoon I dropped them at the doors of the high school or college - have served to hit me square in the face that I'm getting older. I’ve not paid attention. Until now.

A few Friday nights ago at the lake, my oldest son Jacob, and his girlfriend, Chelsea, found me huddled in bed with a book. My husband came in and we all talked about this and that. Out of the blue, Jacob said, “I asked Chelsea to marry me tonight.”

That they wanted to share this significant moment on THE NIGHT made both my husband and I cry. That they have adored each other since junior year of high school, throughout college and beyond only made the next step logical and timely. Not to mention romantic. We toasted with the little red wine we had left in the house and sat on the bed talking for another hour or more.

Despite knowing the happiness and the significance of the moment, I couldn’t help the ache rising in my heart. An ache I didn’t quite understand.

The next day, I plopped my middle-aged ass in the hammock and hammered out my thoughts into my journal.

I was more than angry with myself. I banged at the frustration that I always slow down and take a side step, with a pang of puzzlement, to figure out what everything means. Then my mind clicked. My ache didn't exist because my son was getting married, rather because he couldn’t get married and begin a life with someone other than his dad and me. He was only born last week.

I lived my youth, got an education, a vocation, a partner, had children, bought a house, made 100’s of meals, and then before I knew it, my children grew taller than me. The growing passed so quickly. So quietly. Life seemed so easily defined and, now, I no longer know where I'm heading.

No longer am I at the front of the stage. The curtain isn't closing in front of me. Maybe just a fine sheath of mist before me from where I will watch the next generation, and exit stage right to do whatever comes next. It's not like I no longer have a part. It's just not a starring role - in that role. Does that make any sense?

Oh, how I hate all this redefinition.

This one's easy, though. Mother of the groom? Wear beige and keep my mouth shut. Right?

We love Chelsea. She knows all our faults and still likes us. With great love, our family offers a wide open stage.

I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars grow old...

William Shakespeare