And hello again from the airport lounge. Why, oh why, did the idiots designing JFK and Newark not put the lounges on the other side of security? Just saying.
Anyhoo, it’s been a very productive trip. Partly thanks to the 2.5 hours of marital Fancy therapy H endured (more to come on that very necessary exercise) and partly thanks to American Express.
Amex, I love you. Xoxo FF.
Oh, back to my story. Sorry.
So as we were getting ready to leave last week, the Minis already out the door for some music/glue/glitter/motorized vehicle adventure du jour, Fancy PA upstairs, matching my jewelry to my outfits, H and I went to the luggage closet.
“I’ll take this,” he declared, pulling down his Little Tumi.
“Get me that and that,” I said, pointing to Big Tumi and Bigger Tumi.
Directed at me.
“We’re going for 3 days,” he said in a calm and measured voice.
“Yes, and I’m shopping,” I replied, as matter-of-factly as I could.
There was a moment of silence.
“Look, we can put your suitcase inside one of mine on the way there and then we don’t look so stupid,” was my very gracious offer. “But I’ve got a list. And it involves Mr. Choo. Jimmy, if you will. And I’m bringing home that Sesame Street Playhouse, come hell or high water. Santa’s coming. Don’t even try to stand in my way on this one. I had one when I was 3 and so will my children. Not my fault the Brits don’t respect the Grouch the way I do.”
Every so slightly I widened my stance and crossed my arms, anticipating an argument.
Surprisingly he just nodded and waved me toward the stairs.
I wasn’t really sure where my husband had gone. Had aliens sucked out his brain? But so long as he was agreeing, why stop there?
“Oh, and tomorrow, Fancy Therapist has blocked out the entire morning for us. Since he never gets to see you and all.”
“Okay,” he replied, to my utter and total shock.
“And I spent a thousand on our tickets to Book of Mormon. Saturday afternoon,” I kept going, in a state of complete disbelief. Who was this man I was standing next to?
“Alright. But can we go to Sushi Gari while we are there?” he asked, in the most agreeable tone I’ve heard in years.
Holy shit. The man I married was still in there. Fatter. Richer. But still a good egg.
It’s nice to be loved. Lounge behaviour and all.