There are nights when sleep eludes me, and rather than tossing and turning, I find myself scrolling through Pinterest. I’m on the hunt for fresh ideas for my “Escapes” board, gazing at alluring destinations that seem fit for former presidents looking to unwind after their terms. Naturally, these places are far from my budget, but daydreaming about them is still enjoyable.
Imagine a stunning beach with turquoise waters and a plush cabana. I can picture sipping rum mixed with coconut juice. Yet, the thought of shaving my legs and dealing with waxing in less-than-ideal areas is less appealing. And trying on swimsuits? That’s a whole other adventure I could do without, especially when it involves wrestling with kaftans and cover-ups. Plus, no one enjoys getting sand in those sensitive spots.
When so many elements of a vacation turn into inconveniences, you start to wonder if it’s even worth it. Many people complain about needing a vacation to recover from their vacation, and I get it. The planning, the packing, the travel itself—it’s all a chaotic ordeal that you have to endure at least twice. Not to mention scheduling appointments for nails and hair, because heaven forbid I show up with roots visible to strangers I’ll never see again.
Add in kids and a spouse, and the vacation morphs into a complicated version of everyday life, filled with planned activities and a reminder of all the comforts left behind. My ideal getaway, however, would be the complete opposite. It would be just me—perhaps with a rare need to interact with another human for room service. I wouldn’t need to go far or break the bank; a mid-range hotel in a business park would suffice, as long as there are no reports of bed bugs.
A room with blackout curtains would be a luxury I wouldn’t pass up. Those curtains would block out the world for 24 hours, perfect for napping in peace without anyone seeing me in my natural state.
While I may seem low-maintenance, I do have standards. A clean bathroom is non-negotiable; I’d prefer not to witness any remnants of the last guest’s misfortunes. A strong scent of bleach is ideal, as long as it’s bearable.
And even though it’s just me, I’d require a king-sized bed. I want a taste of sleeping without a toddler’s foot lodged between my face and upper lip. A complimentary breakfast is also a must, but not the kind with stale pastries—there must be a waffle maker. A fridge and microwave in my room would be fantastic, allowing me to enjoy second-breakfast after a well-deserved nap.
Aside from a brief jaunt to the lobby for waffles, I plan to stay put. I’ll leave my family with the name and contact of a fictitious hotel to avoid interruptions. And yes, I’ll disconnect the phone so the front desk can’t bother me about noise complaints while I indulge in shows filled with violence, swearing, and adult themes.
Along with the fake hotel details, I’ll leave a note for my family stating that I won’t return until the dishwasher is clean, the bathrooms are fresh, and the bedrooms don’t have an unpleasant odor. This is my vacation, not theirs. I refuse to allow them to think they can slack off while I’m away. I might even add some culinary suggestions for them to have ready for my return.
As I sprawl across that massive bed, completely relaxed with snacks scattered around, I’ll take a moment to silently thank my family for driving me to seek this wonderful escape. Without their occasional chaos, I wouldn’t have felt the need to pack a bag, give my partner a quick high-five, and dash out the door with both middle fingers raised. Then, it’s back to indulging in Oreos without the need to share and enjoying all the shows I love.
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Summary
This article humorously explores the desire for a solo vacation away from the chaos of family life. The author outlines the ideal getaway, emphasizing the need for relaxation, cleanliness, and indulgence without the hassle of everyday responsibilities. It highlights the importance of taking a break and appreciating the little things that contribute to personal well-being.