No Kids Allowed, Part 2

May 2, 2018
No Kids Allowed, Part 2

The hubs and I went on a vacation last week. Jrue and Jai stayed back in Georgia with my fantastic sister-in-law so that their weekday routine and cohesion could continue and so that mom and dad could attain some one-on-one level of renewal. On Monday night, we boarded a flight to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida with plans to take a Lyft to Sunny Isles Beach, located about 30 miles from the airport. I’m not a fan of flying (it’s the feeling of “lift” that I abhor), and I actually experience super gut-wrenching anxiety when I even consider boarding a plane, but the 2-hour flight is always so much faster than the 10+ hours it would have taken us to drive to our end-of-land destination.  

I suck it up and feign my “gangsta.” I like pretend to be a superhero when I get on a plane…face my boldest fear head-on in my day-to-day “regular person” disguise and always triumph through bumpy take-offs and air pockets. 

Damn those scary air pockets. 

The trip, however, was exactly what we didn’t know we needed. We got in some serious S’s: sunshine, sea views, sleep, and seduction. It’s as if a doctor had prescribed them.  

We had visited our particular resort twice: during our honeymoon nearly eight years ago and for our 5-year wedding vow renewal. During both occasions, we were delayed at check-in because our rooms were in varying degrees of non-readiness, which was annoying, but not enough of a deal breaker for us to swear off the hotel completely. Its location on the beach for the money is undeniably worth it. This stopover was a last-stitch attempt to see if they had improved their processes in the three years since we had last stayed there. 

Our check-in process went smoothly despite the late hour. I ensured that our hotel room was not taken by calling ahead the week before, then the day before, to make sure that our anticipated ETA was noted and in their system. 

The night auditor upgraded our room. Whatever that meant.  

At any rate, he got all of the cool points I had left in my being after gripping my husband’s arms for dear life in the metal tube. 

From that moment came the uninterrupted sleep. Can we take a second to salute the hibernation gods for the art of successive REM cycles? My, did I miss those. 

The black-out drapes took precious care of our nocturnal bliss, too. I salute those, as well. 

Our first morning met us with an awe-inspiring panoramic scenery of the bustling Tuesday city to our right and the Atlantic Ocean to our left. Our suite, decorated in comfortable maritime shades of seafoam and sand and amber, twinkled as daylight poured in through our balcony doors and wall of windows. Our random music playlist shuffled sufficient jams, one after the last, songs picked especially to incite happy memories later. The ocean’s cobalt green was magnificent in its vastness; the sunshine sprinkled sharp sparks onto its form. People bobbled on the surface, just little heads, bodies submerged, invisibly cloaked.  

It was all entirely poetic. 

Or, you know, I was just in a tickled mood and everything seemed glittery. 

We didn’t take advantage of anything really. We stayed in budget by walking to a well-known local grocer a mile away and purchasing commodities for multiple lunches to store in our room’s fridge. We took a handful of Lyft rides to see the closest shopping mall and to go to a casino once back in Ft. Lauderdale at the end of our week.

We sat down. A lot.

Mostly, though, we strolled and talked. The hubs and I caught up with one another. It was priceless. There were no particularly “special” conversations. No serious talks to be had. Sometimes, we said nothing, but smiled, for miles. It occurred to us that there is a major difference in “how was your day?” when trapped in the endless weeks of “The Everyday” versus “how was your day?” when the quotidian expanse temporarily doesn’t exist. When it was just the two of us for a little while, we could be 20 and 24 years old again, like the night we first met. We laughed at big bellies and tiny swimsuits. We watched the greatness that is Lebron James. We ate pizza in bed and laid right down for long naps on it, with no interest in the calories or inactivity.  

I cannot go without saying that it was also awesome to feel like a woman again. Not a mom or a wife, per say, but feminine and flirty and soothed. Secure in my curves. I was delighted. I was attracted and attractive. It read through in my reciprocation of physical and verbal intimacy. 

That’s all I can say about that. You know how it goes. Heehee.

Those days away worked a number on a long-lasting appreciation and respect in the both of us, much in the way the after-burn of strength training persists. When there are young children in a marriage, it can often be difficult to connect daily with significant others. We knew this going in, but it’s tough once under. I am still so euphoric to know that, after all these years, my hubs still wants to be with me, still finds pleasure in my existence and in my friendship and in my conversation, and still finds me desirous and deserving. We still like each other. That’s going to be essential when we’re 90 and toothless.

These feelings are the best gift I have received in a long time. 

Visit the 3AM Mea Instagram page for photos of our trip!

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