Vacation torture

If I had lined up every male on the planet 20 years ago and said which one are you least likely to marry, I am pretty sure that my husband would have been that person. Or at least in the small cluster of people that included Kalahari bushmen, Communist Special Forces, and dog chefs of Korea. This is not a negative toward him, but I am pretty sure I would not have given him the time of day because I was shallow as a birdbath. He is the polar opposite of me - not spontaneous, responsible, eats yogurt willingly, puts himself to bed when sick, doesn't like ceiling fans, and is completely indifferent to People magazine. He is what I would like to be more like, but I have decided that I am serving my purpose by letting him live vicariously through me and my escapades. When we were first starting to date, I think he pretty much decided that I was drunk between the ages of 18 and 21, had avoided all contact with nature, went through men like others go through toilet paper, and only read mystery thrillers. There is a chunk (not a grain) of truth in that, so it delights me when I can prove him wrong about ANYTHING or rattle him. Mainly because he is always right. Because he is always right and so methodical that entire decades can pass without a major decision, I love to rock his world. I have managed to do it a few times - the surprise that is Boo, telling him I ran track in high school and seriously thought about going to the United States Military Academy. He hates spur of the moment decisions, which brings me to the whole point of this post. Vacation planning.

We go to visit his family in Germany every year. He grew up in a lovely, charming village in the north of Germany that is primarily an agricultural region. We saw everything remotely interesting 15 years ago, so each summer is a challenge for me to entertain myself. It is impossible to carry the amount of books that Bunny and I need. His parents insist on watching lip-synching leider (folk music) shows with the occasional bike race (note to self - bike racing is more boring to watch than golf or bowling) thrown in which rules out TV even if it is only basic German cable. The local bookstores do not carry any English language journals so it is the equivalent of stepping into a time capsule for the three weeks we are there - I have no idea of what is going on in the world unless he tells me. His mother brightens my day with her cooking so I come home fatter if not happier. One of my favorite activities while there is being a "schnecker jaeger" or slug hunter when I walk around with my salt dispenser. His parents used to have a huge garden so I could at least dig potatoes, but they took the garden away from me about 8 years ago because it was easier to go to the market. My husband knows I do this trip for him and because I love the theoretical concept of grandparents spending lots of time with their grandchildren, so every other year he throws me a bone of a real vacation.

This is vacation year. For unknown reasons, I decided that he was going to do it all. This has been sort of like asking Dick Cheney to mind his own business in terms of difficulty for me. I make graphs of opening times and prices for museums before trips and doctoral dissertations are written based on less research than I put into a vacation. So, he started looking. Every time he came close to making a decision, I would throw out a new country. We tentatively decided on Greece since we knew we would eat the food, it had beaches, and it was fairly cheap. I was strongly advocating for Norway or Morocco, but he more strongly resisted. Germany loves the package vacation and we were going to squelch our individuality and go on a package tour where you got the hotel and food and a beach for the low, low, price...So, husband spends lots of time looking for the perfect place. Then I tell him, I don't know if I want to go to Greece. I want to go to Turkey. In fact, I start looking for HOUSES in Turkey because I don't want a package deal anymore. We figure out that for one week it would be a giant pain in the posterior, so we go back to Turkish package deals. I learned that Russians love Turkish package deals and there were so many complaints about loud, drunk Russians we went back to Crete as the plan. Many, many, many hours into his labor, I get on the internet and say, "Look! Spain is cheaper!!!" He isn't convinced, but then he says, "Grenada! Alhambara!" and we were done. So, smart man that he is he immediately booked the tickets before I could change my mind again. I decided that no matter how miserable I am, I will be able to eat olives and good sausages and drink sherry every day, so I will probably make it. I will just have to avoid the British package travelers. Here is how to find a British female tourist on the beach. There is a better than average chance that she is the topless one smoking a cigarette while lying on her back and dragging her breasts out of her armpits (in their defense, they shave all appropriate areas). In America, she would be in a mumu, but in Europe she will be in a thong. When we went to Crete a few years ago, I realized that I don't like package tourists so I am going to struggle with my prejudices.

So, I am now going to add Spanish to the languages that I need to know but don't. At least I can count to 10 which is more than I had in Italy.

Barfing on Your Shoes

So, if something has a $325 price tag on it, isn't it reasonable to suppose you won't get it if you offer $60? Two weeks ago I went to a silent auction to support Monkey Boy's soccer team. They had all this stuff, absolutely none of it I needed or even wanted. However, there was one item that I thought, "Well, I need to drive the price up on this one since right now there is a $300 difference between list price and sell price." And, thus I began my run down the pathway to hell.

Much to my horror and despite two hours passing during which every single person in that room let me down, I left the auction as the owner of an exercise Boot Camp. I have been in hysterics ever since. I can make myself laugh out loud whenever I think about this. With the exception of pedophiles, food from Taco Bell, and the hunting of elephants, there is not much on this planet that I hate more than exercise. I GUARANTEE that if hell is what you hate most, I will be mopping while on a treadmill while chatting with someone who wants to talk about programming languages. I hate exercise. The only things that would make me exercise is 1) the threat of having to wear a bathing suit on Oprah 2) them having to remove a wall to get my fat butt out of the house when I was dead if I don't lose weight or 3) paying for said exercise.

So, I downloaded the nifty packet that comes with LOTS! OF! EXCLAMATION! POINTS! and threats. If someone else wakes up with a hangover and doesn't show up, then *I* get to do extra sprints. If someone in my class turns up dead and that classmate has skipped a class, I guarantee you should consider me a suspect. The only thing that gets me out of this class is THUNDER. Snow, rain, dead family members, and boils on my butt are not excuses. AND we get to do it M-F, with for those willing, a FREE!!! Saturday class thrown in. Oh, the joy. And I have to write down every single bite of food I put in my mouth. I guess I need to eat all my Girl Scout cookies this weekend before they give me the log book.

So, they give you four free classes so you can get in touch with your inner masochist early. I went to one of the warm-up classes yesterday. A woman who was way too happy was leading the 6:00 class (note to all - those people are crazier than me) asked me if I was excited to take this class and I said honestly, "I would rather have dental work done without medication." She blinked a couple of times and left me. So, I got to be the fat, slow, old girl at the class yesterday. I did not die and I am able to walk without moaning today, and I am going back tomorrow morning. And be the slow, fat girl again. I am hopeful for a couple of things - the promise of dropping a clothing size that the literature promises and that elusive "high" that other people seem to get when they exercise. The only "high" that I have ever felt when exercising was when it stopped and I could lie on my back and watch the pretty clouds pass overhead. My friend, Chris, compared a good exercise high to great sex, but I know for a fact he is insane so I am going to ignore him. Have you ever seen a runner smiling? Except after they have stopped? Nope, me either. They all look like they are trying to have a painful bowel movement.

I am done now. Pray for me over the next month.