travl

My feelings got hurt, lightning stuck, a miracle occurred, and I avoided a fight.

Otherwise known as Thursday at my house.

See what I did there? I copped to the fact that my feelings got hurt.
I said it.
Out loud to my husband in real-time, to my girlfriend when I relayed the story on Sunday and to you guys now in print.

I think that’s important so I’m gonna point it out. Then I’m gonna stop because…well, because I believe that the very act of saying, “That hurt my feelings” diffuses the hurt a bit; and also because that’s enough whining for one post.

Here’s the deal:
My husband and I are in the midst of planning a motorcycle trip for this September.
I have been waxing nostalgic for Italy, the smarmy southern part, the part south of Rome, closer to Sicily where my people are from DNA wise, (I have the mustache to prove it), and Pompeii in particular.

I also want to see the leaves turn color on the East coast of the U.S. I think that would blow my mind on a motorcycle.

My husband is like…meh, ambivalent. Undecided. Uninspired. Comme si Comme sa. You get the picture.

Winding mountain roads with the sumptuous scenery of Vermont, the first hint of a nip in the air and the spectacle of the vividly colored leaves surrounding us.
OR
Warm, Indian summer days, dusty, ancient, red clay roads, the smells, sights and sounds of the Italian countryside; their food, their vino—and a city full of instantly fossilized citizens struck down mid-sentence during a cataclysmic volcanic eruption.

I know!
What to do?
So hard to decide.

I let it go, and the trajectory was sloooowly, (like the Titanic turning to avoid the iceberg) headed toward New England and the leaves.
Fine with me. That trip is up there on my list.

But fate intervened.
I used to balk at any sudden change of plans. Fate—Shmate. I never saw it as fate. It was just somebody sticking their big nose into my business, messing things up. Now we just call that Sunday.

We had emailed the company that was leading those Changing of the Leaves Tours of Vermont. Crickets…
Meanwhile…Raphael received an email out-of-the-blue from one of his Wolf Pack (The guys that he takes amazing motorcycle trips with every year) asking if he was interested in joining them for a four to five day ride in Europe. It fell at the exact time in September that we were planning our vacation.

Uh…hell yah, he answered explaining the serendipity of the timing and the fact that we (he and I) would be there together.

I’ve ridden with these guys many times. Tons. In all types of terrain and weather. As far as riding is concerned, I’m a dude. I leave my uterus at home in a drawer. At fifty-seven it’s not like I’m using it anymore.

Cool! A few days riding the Alps with the Wolf Pack, starting and ending in Milan. Then he and I would continue down south.
Fossilized citizens of Pompeii, here I come!

Until last Thursday night.
“They want a definite answer about the trip so they can purchase the tickets. The only thing is…by the looks of the count, they aren’t including you. I distinctly told them it would be you and I.”

Fuck. Fuck them! Oh, what is it? AnAll boys trip? I sneered.
“Um, yeah, no wives are coming” he answered sheepishly, never looking up from the text on his phone.

“None of their wives EVER come on the trips—they don’t ride!
Besides, It’s OUR vacation, I’m not trying to tag along, I’m there because it’s our vacation…and I’m not a wife! I’m a dude!”

“I know” he answered, looking more and more confused. I was getting pissed.

“That hurts my feelings!” I announced, surprising myself with the intensity of the declaration.
I think I even stomped my right foot and did a head thing—like a three-year old.

“It just does. You’ve got to work this out. Quit telling me they’re not including me. That just hurts my feelings! Let me know what you guys decide.” I turned and left the room with a dramatic flourish in a full-blown hissy-fit.

Into the den I stomped, flopping down on the couch, arms swinging wildly then resting across my chest, crossed; my bottom lip protruding beyond the rest of my face.
Just for affect.

A moment later lightning struck (because a tropical front was wafting through LA) and a miracle occurred.

I stopped being hurt and mad. Just like that. Big lip flop-down—to clarity—in 2.5 minutes.
A record. A personal best.

I didn’t want to go ride the Alps.
Been there done that, barfed on the T-shirt.
Too twisty of roads. Not my favorite ride. Soooo 2005.

I’ll pass and I’ll meet them in Milan! Genius! Fuck the Wolf Pack and the Alps, it’s southern Italy I want to see anyway.

He can go and I’ll meet him!

I ran back into the kitchen where he was furiously stirring something delicious. “Listen, here’s my plan. Call them back…”
As we started to flesh out our new-found solution—we found the nugget. It had been there all along, we were just too…lame? Stupid? Spoiled? Short-sighted, all-of-the-above, to see it.

It never occurred to us that they (their company) would be springing for plane tickets and renting the bikes. That would be four days expenses and Raphael’s flight taken care of—we just had to pick up another week or so, and my ticket.

NUGGET! (Happy dance)

When I told my friend this story her response made me laugh. Hard.
“You’re getting really good at this marriage thing” she remarked. “It’s great to see.”

Shit! I should hope so after almost fifteen years.

Carry on,
xox