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What I want seems dead simple.
I drop off the children and waltz directly to gate. I’m burdened by only a small carry-on bag — no childish books, or toys, or diapers. I check nothing. I speak to no one, or as few people as possible. Once seated, I don headphones, crack open a book and lose myself.
I refuse the bag of pretzels.
Once on the ground, I manage to find my way to the hotel room with no fuss at all and within the space of about a half-hour. I grab a bucket of ice. Unpack two pairs of shorts, two t-shirts, and various assorted undies. Plug in the laptop and ensure the connection holds. Change out of cold-weather clothes into warm-weather clothes. Then I step out to the balcony and take my first look at the ocean, because honestly, the ocean is the motivating factor behind this entire fantasy and the only part that isn’t available in my own chilly ocean-deprived state.
The particular ocean doesn’t matter, just so long as it is warm enough to sit near and walk along. Swimming? Out of the question. Not even necessary if it were June instead of December. It’s the rhythm, the sound, the smell, the feel of hot (or even warm) sand on my feet that brings me back to this wish again and again and again.
For three days or maybe four I would speak as little as possible. I’d say, “Take a potty break,” or “Sit down at the table,” or “Stop doing that to the cat!” not at all. I’d answer the phone for my children and my lover but no one else.
I’d eat when I chose but cook none of it. I’d wash not a single dish. Nor would I do laundry, make my own bed, scoop cat poop, vacuum up crumbs or change never-ending tiny clothes and rolls of toilet paper.
Instead I’d read and write and walk on the beach. I’d sleep. I’d sit and stare out at the water so that my mind could do its thing without interruption from anything but boats and the occasional other person enjoying the exact same thing as myself. It would be, in a word, heavenly.
I could make this happen. There are a few days over the holidays when the children will be with their father and I could possibly sneak from my state to another state more beach-like and balmy than my own. I could feel the sun on my arms. I could pick up seashells.
But I can’t. My savings account maintains too tight a lock on its contents. I should save that cash for…something. Something surely will pop up. Holiday travel frustrates me terribly. Connections, delays, taxis, trolleys all make me shudder. I’d feel so selfish going away without my children. My mother would be horrified at the thought of me going on vacation alone in another state. It is so far outside he experience, her desires, that she could not imagine the benefits and would only think how very strange a girl she bore who would even consider such a bizarre proposal.
But my mind keeps coming back to the ocean and three or maybe four days of quiet. For the past week I’ve thought of little but this, of the waves and sand and the peace and the time. Could it be as simple as just…doing it?
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