I’ve come to the realization that I may take the adage “out of sight, out of mind” a bit too seriously when it comes to my husband, Doo. Case in point, his recent ski trip.
I knew he would be in Colorado and that he’d be meeting up with our older girl-child who’s at Colorado State University. And of course, I knew the exact day of his departure because I’d been dreaming for months about the five evenings of blissful solitude I’d be enjoying, filled with cozy frozen dinners for one in a perfectly tidy living room. Heaven was nigh!
But that’s about it. So, when our daughter called to ask for the Airbnb code, I could not help. And when my friends at work wondered where they were skiing, I responded, “Breckinridge? Veil? The Rockies?” I didn’t know the airline, if he was renting a car, nor that three of Doo’s buddies were going, too. Basically, since I wasn’t part of this vacation and because I was more excited to have Doo gone, his itinerary literally went straight from my inbox to deleted mail with no acknowledgement on my part. He would be dead to me, and I couldn’t wait.
But what if something had gone wrong? I would have been worthless to investigators had he suddenly disappeared or had a horrible accident. I’d have probably heard about the killer avalanche on the radio and turned the station. “Ooh, I love this song!”
Regardless, Doo has returned and my brief sojourn as a single lady is over. I still have no idea where he was, though. Out of sight, out of mind.