On Sunday, we leave for a week-long vacation with the fam. Part of me is jumping around in barely restrained excitement that sounds something like this: "Wheeee! A REAL vacation! I get to go on a REAL vacation! Par-tay!"
Another part of me is slinking around trying not to make too big of a deal about it, lest the Vacation Gods hear about this and start playing practical jokes on me again. One year, I went to Myrtle Beach, and my bikini top fell off and floated away in the ocean. I was there with my boyfriend's parents. So of course, he's laughing, and I'm trying to find my top, and out comes my boyfriend's dad. He thought we were playing Marco Polo and wanted to play too.
Recipe for disaster, that.
Slayer and I have only taken one real vacation together during our entire 10 year relationship. We went on a short honeymoon, and on the first day? I broke my foot. Walking.
Yes, walking. We took a walk down the beach, and I broke my foot. Don't ask me how, because I don't know.
So for this vacation, I'm not wearing any bikinis and I'm going to walk on my hands the entire time. Think it'll work?