my word
Alone at Last! by megan willis
T
Photo: Rolf Bruderer/GettyImages.
here were no iPhones back then. The last time my husband and I went away without the kids, W was entering his second year in office and I was eight months pregnant. It was the fall of 2002. I know. The in-laws watched our 18-month-old for what would be our last weekend away for a long time. We found a hotel made of stone on the river in Montreal’s old city. It was the Auberge Vieux-Port. We walked to a fabulous dinner, where we hobnobbed with a bevy of bon vivants and, in the morning, we walked those cobblestone streets until I thought my uterus would fall out. We saw as much as we could possibly see of this beautiful city and on our last night we ordered in cheeseburgers and celebrated our good fortune and the miracle in my big-mama belly who was preparing for her coming-out party. In the morning we ventured down the boulevards and shops one last time and I became hypnotized by a store with brightly colored paper Moroccan lamps hanging from the ceiling. I wanted them all. I looked at my husband and our faces said the same thing: There will be no lanterns today. There will soon be diapers and onesies and baby Willis number two and that is good. ELEVEN YEARS, TWO TWEENS, AND ABOUT TIME Février 2013 (that’s “February” en français, Américains). We are way, way, WAY overdue for a trip away. Our babysitting options have all moved away and otherwise dwindled. Then, out of nowhere, we have an epiphany at Christmas brunch that results in making our nephew and his girlfriend an offer they can’t refuse. They are busy with a new baby and work, and live an hour away but “desperate” trumps “subtle,” and we pop the question. “We know it’s a lot to ask but would you guys ever consider coming up for a weekend to watch the …?” “Of course,” they amazingly reply. “Just tell us when.” Cue the excitement. After fantasizing about leaving the country we conclude that we just need to leave the neighborhood and decide on a destination: Saratoga. Close, fun, walkable and grown up. The week before departure, the weather forecasters begin catastrophizing an epic 20-year winter storm, the low
pressure of which launches a migraine epicentered in my left eye. The pain gains intensity all week, along with the frenzied predictions of snowpocalypse. Thursday’s forecast? Bad. Trains are shutting down and the city is reporting “waffle-sized snow.” Kübler-Ross grief stages set in: bargaining, anger, depression, denial, acceptance. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe we can still go Saturday. Let’s just wait until morning.” Friday. Despite widespread office and school closings, we once again dodge the bullet, even though the storm is sucking other portions of the Northeast into its vast snow hole. Call mission control; resume the countdown. We pack bags and cell phones and breathe sighs of relief. On arrival in Saratoga, our hotel room is promptly upgraded to a suite and we thank all known deities before heading to Max London’s for a big-girl, big-boy date. My migraine is peaking and I have to push on my left eye to counter the pressure, but I’d be out with my husband even if I had to carry my eyeball in my handbag. After eating, we tramp about in the beautiful snowfall that has begun and on the way back to the hotel we find the perfect dive bar stocked with both pool tables and a killer old-school jukebox. Despite grand plans of snowshoeing and ice skating, for the next 24 hours food is the only thing enticing enough to make us leave our hotel room. We rack up $100 in payper-view movies charges and laugh like idiots as we do. We order in filet mignon that we eat with plastic utensils, and it is good. MORAL OF THE STORY There are several. First of all, we have to do this way more often. Second, snow holes happen but we can’t let them suck our joy into their vortex. What could have cancelled our weekend wound up providing a George Bailey-like backdrop and, somewhere, an angel got its wings. Last and least expectedly, in an age where not being overscheduled leaves me bored and confused, I reaffirmed that sometimes doing absolutely nothing with my husband is the greatest thing in the world. HL Want to see your essay here? Submit your ideas to editor Rebecca Haynes at rhaynes@hearstmediact.com.
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