It's all over but the shoutin'. I'm 40. I wonder if I'll now start to shake my fist in the air periodically and rail against "you kids and your twitters and your facesbooks!" Actually, if you want to feel really, truly geriatric, check out www.textsfromlastnight.com. That site simultaneously repulses and fascinates me. Has college really changed that much in 20 years? I had no idea that anal sex is now an acceptable topic of casual conversation. Apparently I don't get out much.
Anywho, our romantic getaway for three was fabulous. We swam, we shopped, we whirlpooled, and we ate candy. We arrived on Friday and there was a bottle of wine and a card in our suite when we checked in. "Who sent this?" I wondered.
"Someone who doesn't know you at all," responded P. (It was Merlot.) The gift turned out to be from the resort itself, which was very nice. When I made the reservation I had mentioned that it was a birthday trip. I've stayed there several times before and have always enjoyed it, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to mention the reason for the trip. Always go for free stuff when you can - that's a little tip from me to you.
On Saturday, I suggested we go shopping and, much to my amazement, my other half agreed. We hit a candy store and browsed in various shops. The kid bought me a watch. And by "bought me a watch" I mean that I picked it out, her dad paid for it, and she took credit for the whole affair. I also picked up a couple of sweaters, a new mousepad, and a wine glass (yes, just one). We went out to lunch and, later, went out to dinner. We rounded out the day with a swim in the pool.
On Sunday (my actual birthday), we checked out and then A and P dropped me off at the spa where I had scheduled my massage. The spa was in a woodsy setting, a very serene sort of place (I guess that's the idea). New age-y music was piped into all the rooms. I filled out a form, declined an attempt to sell me extra services (some sort of skin brushing thing? I have no idea), and was then escorted to a massage room by a therapist named Jill.
I had to work really hard at relaxing, but I mostly pulled it off. The massage therapist was darned good at her job, and I did my best to convince myself that she was not appalled by the sheer mass of me. The hour flew by. When it was over I definitely felt less . . . oh, I don't know . . . frenetic? Freaked out? Anxiety-ridden? Something.
P earned lots of "good husband" points this weekend. He gamely kept up as we went from one shop to another, and took care of many of our daughter's basic needs. At one point, they went to a book store while I went to a clothing shop. A half-hour later, he walked out with the following book tucked under his arm: "Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses." Yep, that's my Marine.
A few photos from the weekend:
I read the "safety rules" posted on the wall and they did not explicitly state that adults were not welcome in the ball pit.