Miami or bust

We all work way to hard-- go to work, clean the house, cart the kids around to their 750 practices, hit the gym… and repeat. Life tends to run at a breakneck pace, and we are all left struggling to make it to the weekend. I’ll be honest, by Thursday I am so strung out that I find myself blindly nodding yes to everything. Heck, even my kids know to wait until post-Thursday -night-dinner to hit me up about future weekend plans. Don’t get me wrong, the Thursday night autopilot is an absolute normal result after performing the geographical-single-mom-jig all week—but sometimes it takes more than just a bubble bath to refuel your drained battery. Sometimes you need to grab the bull by the horns, call up your best friends, and plan a vacation to a tropical resort. You know-- the kind of place where people who drink Bloody Marys with breakfast are NOT considered alcoholics AND the sun NEVER hides behind a cloud. Of course, the planning of such a vacation is the easy part. Actually making the plan a reality…. Well now, that takes a little creativity.

And that’s exactly where this story begins. Last March, one of my besties, Loren, and I had this grandiose idea to go to Miami. We were both tired of life kicking us in the keester, and we figured that it was time to pack up our bags and go some place where sand, water, and margaritas were the norm. Miami seemed to fit the bill perfectly—except for one small detail, neither one of us could really afford to take time off from work. So, we did what every good Army Wife does when faced with a challenge… We researched, planned, connived… and we came up with the ultimate plan of deception known to mankind. A pretend wedding.

Yes, this is true, and we totally expect to have to answer to Jesus about THIS one. Loren told her boss that her ‘cousin’ Amy was getting married in Miami, and she couldn’t miss it (I was family, for Pete’s sake). I did the same. We felt only slightly guilty about our little white lies, and probably should have let the matter rest there—but as all women know, a wedding is a wedding (regardless if it is imaginary or not) and it seems to resonate with its own epic life force. We decided to milk this baby for EVERYTHING that it was worth, and celebrate like rockstar pretend brides. Yes, we registered at William Sonoma (Loren REALLY wanted a cappuccino maker). Yes, we had a pretend bachelorette party (and invited all of our mutual friends). Yes, we wore veils at the airport (just so everyone would know we were headed to a destination wedding and would hopefully buy us free drinks at the hotel bar). Was it wrong? Absolutely. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

(Resting up before the big pretend moment... on the airport floor.)

For four days we sat on the beach, floated in the ocean, drank pina coladas served to us by hot Cuban waiters, and only changed out of our bathing suits to don cocktail dresses for girls night out. We made a dozen new friends from all over the world, hung out with Cuban cartel ring leaders (THAT story will have to involve its very own blog), and learned that vacation doesn’t really have anything to do with where you are going, but rather what you are escaping from. For four days, I refused to answer work emails, pretended that my husband was located safely at home and not in a war zone, and let my mother handle EVERYTHING with the kids. It was heaven.

In fact, my mother was the one who told me, “A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you've been taking.” And frankly, I have had enough with stress, war, and a work load that even a miracle-worker would struggle with. So here I sit—writing to you all-- sunburned, buried in paper work, in a house that looks like it barely survived a nuclear explosion—but smiling with a soul that is suddenly whole again. The fact that I am broke and a few damaged cells closer to skin cancer is irrelevant Vacation is all about finding what brings you joy…. And simply going there. And believe me… I plan to get pretend married at least once a year.

(The pretend brides)