Saturday night we were caught checking into our local Marriott. It had been a tough few months, with both of us in start-ups, children applying to college and middle school, a new dog, and several weeks of summer separation looming. Not to mention the fact that both of our moms arrive next week. So in the interest of "keeping the love alive" and under the pretext of "checking out the beds" (did you know Marriott sells beds?), we booked a night at a hotel not half a mile from our front door.
As P signed the credit card slip and I juggled the bag with the wine and a handful of Baby Bels, I heard a little giggle behind me. There were Betsy and John, dressed for the evening, and doing what most respectable couples do on a Saturday night, going to a party. They looked at us and laughed. We looked at them and blushed.
Oh well. We grinned and headed to the elevator and our 8th floor escape. When the doors opened on the second floor to disgorge some other riders, another couple who are good friends of ours happened to glance up from a Bar Mitzvah celebration inside the ballroom across the hall and spotted us before we could duck behind the elevator doors. My cell phone rang 8 seconds later. Caller ID: Jenny B. Busted again!
It may seem strange that the best we can manage is a hotel quickie a few blocks from home, but we've been using this strategy for over 15 years. With a husband who worked 80 hours a week (and golfed 10), 4 kids under the age of 6 including one with severe asthma, and a debilitating fear of flying, the only way to actually get away was to book a room in the next town. Although not nearly as exotic as Bali, Maui, or Capri, it's doable. All we had to throw in our bag was a change of clothes, bottle of wine (ok, two), corkscrew, apple, and deodorant. All told we were gone @ 16 hours...but it was just what the doctor ordered. Just bracing for the ribbing we'll get from our pals at the next soiree.
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