I firmly believe that a successful marriage relies on two key ingredients: bjs and separate vacations.
Do you think the old you has died? You're wrong. The old you is buried under piles of laundry, production reports, and dirty diapers. Every once in a while, you must flee. Run, run, as fast as you can.
Do not feel guilty. Because rooted people (and that's nearly everyone) will try to make you feel guilty.
Like your father, who will say, "What are you doing? WHY? [annoyed pause] I just don't get it."
Listen, Pops. I know you and your new wife are jocking the whole Linda-and-Paul McCartney-never-sleep-apart-until-one-of-you-dies scam, but get this: Paul hooked up with a one-legged woman before you could say "Dancing With the Stars." Now go forth, put that in your pipe, and smoke it.
My old me was found, alive and babbling, in LA.
1. LA Prep:
I am a prime candidate for "What Not to Wear" and haven't bought real makeup since the 90s. So prepping for LA necessitated a stack of US Weeklys and consultations with friends who venture beyond Target and TJ Maxx. I tried out for the part of a girly girl. I starved, Whitestripped, microdermibrasioned, waxed, makeuped, moisturized, manied, pedied, and airbrush-tannied.
The night before my flight, I went to bed looking fly. And then I woke up . . .
looking like this:
From rockin' it to Rocky post-Apollo Creed
Do you see? At being treated nicely, my face--finally realizing that it belonged to a female and not a frat boy--WENT INTO SHOCK.
2. Plane
With deflated eyelids and my skin a warm shade of cantaloupe, I stood in line to board Virgin Airlines. The enthusiastic boys behind me--all 20 years and change--briefed me on what to expect.
Boy #1: "Have you ever flown Virgin Airlines?"
Me (trying to beat him to the punch of a bad joke to avoid the fake laugh): "No, I'm a virgin to Virgin."
Boy #1 (uncomfortably fake laughing): "Heh-um-heh."
Me (uncomfortably registering that I delivered a bad joke unnecessarily): "Heh. Um . . ."
Boy #2: "It's so cool. You have like a TV that you can use to like chat with people in different seats. Like if you see someone you think is hot . . . it's like, AWESOME."
And, yes, this would have been awesome had I figured out how to get my keypad out of my armrest. But I couldn't get past the screens showing wine and Pringles. (PRINGLES!!!)
3. On board
The only thirty-somethings in a cabin of twenty-something hipsters, my girlfriend and I admired our TVs' hip and trendy music, movie, and premium cable selection. The colored strobe lights everywhere? Yes, we agreed, so hip. You can order endless wine and Pringles (PRINGLES!!!) right from your seat. It is AWESOME!!! We fiercely debated music, religion, and the Kardashians over four glasses of white wine.
4. Still on board
My friend passes out. I suddenly can't breathe. The air is too warm and stale. These super-hip strobe lights are now giving me the cold sweats. I reach for the designer red puke bag. Get up and stumble through the sea of ambivalent cool kids and into the bathroom, where I find . . .
more fucking strobe lights.
Red, green, blue, red, green, blue. And more electronica, but louder--THUMP-A, THUMP-A, THUMP-A! Virgin America has become a flying disco from which THERE IS NO ESCAPE. I am in a ring of Dante's Inferno--hurling in the bathroom of the Hipster Airplane--the tiniest, most annoying bathroom in the world.
5. LA
LA was dope-tas-tic. It was all one could hope for--celebrities, beaches, pretty drinks, pretty boys, a VIP table, and Brazilian wax tips from one of my fellow travelers:
"It should take no more than six minutes. Down and dirty. And never get it done by an American. You don't want chitchat, you don't want a friend; you want to feel clean and enjoy how the water runs down your body in the shower."
When I called to tell the hubs that I might get a Brazilian in LA, he said, "Wait until you get home. The bartender I see after basketball games can totally hook you up." (And this is why you need Brazilian wax tips lest the details of your snatch be discussed during the YMCA men's basketball league huddle.)
Oh, and there was also legal weed in LA. Venice Beach pushed the kush like perfume samples at the mall.
And now, after a weekend in stilettos and micro-minis, In-and-Out Burgers, and too much of too much, and too much of nothing, it's back to the sweats, school lunches, basketball practice, and goodnight kisses. There's Mad Men and laundry a-waiting.
Good is in the simple. It's a lovely life, and LA reminded me that I chose it.
xxoo S.M.
p.s. Heck no, I still did not get the Brazilian.
