Yes, I want to go back.
This week has been even worse than the last week. Last night I worked until 2 a.m. in the client's offices trying to get some stuff done. Between challenging performance reviews (I'm the reviewer, not the reviewee), demanding clients, and approaching deadlines, I'm being squeezed on all sides. What I wouldn't give for another escape . . .
Will I go back?
Someday. Not right now. You know what they say about too much of a good thing.
Besides, I have to pay some attention to the lovelies at home. Don't get me wrong - I may try to sneak in another massage when the Dr. isn't looking. But two little boys need a mommy, the flowers in my yard are begging for some photographs, and I owe my husband a date. After all, he fixed the bathroom mirror, ordered a new couch cushion, and took care of some other crummy household tasks in between winning all that money.
Will it ever be as good?
In a way, I hope not. Because the amount of stress and agony and emotion and turmoil that took me to a point where I just needed to escape is not something I want to have every day. Somehow, that made it better. A true stolen moment.
Besides . . . there is a part of the story I didn't tell you. The little details I'll try to forget . . . lest they make me angry and ruin a perfectly good weekend.
First, I had to hassle them to get the king room I reserved. "We have two double beds, Ms. Chako." Double beds? Two? Why would I want to sleep crammed in a double bed? Does the hotel not understand the sheer joy of sleeping in ANY direction on a king bed, arms and legs thrown about in ANY configuration, with no discomfort? And what am I going to do with the other bed? Switch back and forth?
Then, Saturday morning as I was going through another fabulous REM cycle (this is a family blog of sorts . . . we won't go into details of what is in my head during REM) . . . I was awakened at 9 a.m. by the nearby pool resurfacing project. For those of you tasked with chaperoning me in Vegas, you understand that Mrs. Chako does not emerge from her bed on vacation before noon. Unless there is an emergency (more to follow). I tried, unsuccessfully, to rest until my normal vacation waking time . . . let's just say I think I missed one good cycle of a John Cusack/Hugh Jackman/Antonio Banderas orgy. I'm sure of it.
I finally dragged myself out of bed (not before calling to complain and learning that the pool would be done in one hour). I got some lunch, walked on the beach, shopped . . . and returned four hours later to find them still resurfacing. Which also meant that the lovely pool area right off my patio . . . was off limits for the rest of the weekend. Had to make another call . . .
Saturday night, I fell asleep exhausted, prepared to recover my precious REM sleep. Until the fire alarm went off at 3 a.m. Three separate times. Each time, I had to get dressed again and step out to see if it was real fire. It wasn't. But tell that to my heart when a siren goes off in your ear.
Net, net, I got some free stuff . . . but would have rather had my peace and quiet.
Am I glad I went?
But now, I'm home. Where I should be. Content with that escape . . . I'll survive a while 'til the next one. But next time, I'm checking the pool resurfacing schedule . . .