Friends, my husband, Doo, is having a midlife crisis, and if my memory is correct, this is his second in 10 years. Perhaps the first was simply a warm-up, or maybe he’s going to now make it to 100. Regardless, amidst all the other shtick that’s currently hitting the stupid proverbial fan, I’m dealing with a partner who spent the weekend researching live-aboard sailboats in Belize.
That’s right! Apparently, we are quitting our jobs, selling our house and moving to either an ocean or a sea, details TBD. Not immediately, of course. We still have one kid in high school and three who may or may not be staying put, depending on the COVID-19 status of their colleges. There’s also a rather pesky ban on all international travel. But according to Doo, this is happening soon.
So, he’s looking for trial-run opportunities, first to see if he can actually captain a boat in open-water, and second, to ensure we won’t kill each other in such a confined space. Forget our commitment to paying off credit cards or the other small vacays we already have on the books (Murrell’s Inlet, S.C., 2021!), Doo’s focused on weeklong excursions featuring taglines like “off the grid” and “a yachter’s paradise.”
However, as the self-appointed monitor of the purse strings and the official Chez Wilson reality checker, I’ve been less than supportive. Doo is calling me “Destroyer of Dreams.” But I’m not in crisis. I love my work, I like our home and I am perfectly content with our yearly Carolina vacays. I’m also fairly confident that, like last time, this too shall pass.
Peace out.
