Meet in the Middle

"Pause it," he said to me, motioning toward the remote control next to my body. Something about his voice told me whatever he had to say was important, that he didn't want his words to compete with Beauty and the Geek. My laptop was on his lap, and he looked down at the screen, taking a deep breath.

I clamored for the remote, wondering what sort of statement he was about to make. Our evening had been so benign up to this moment: A short visit to a friend's Christmas party preceded our standard house chores - me, finishing up the last of four loads of laundry, him walking around the house, watering can in hand, feeding all of his beloved plants - and led right to bed, where we buried ourselves in the freshly washed sheets and thick blankets to watch recorded episodes of our new favorite reality show. He checked his email while I caught up on an episode he'd already seen, giving his commentary on what was happening between short bursts of hunting-and-pecking on the keyboard. Until he told me to pause it.

The Geek's face froze on screen, his mouth contorted in the middle of a word, stuck there until Billy was finished telling me what he had to tell me. "Okay," I said, turning my body to face him, bracing myself for the enormity of what he wanted to say. I always suspect the worst.

"What do you think," he said slowly, looking at the computer screen, and then at me, "about..." he took a deep breath, he took his time.

Tell me, I thought, whatever it is, just tell me. I was nervous. My gut told me it was nothing bad, but I wasn't prepared for what came out of his mouth:

"What do you think about maybe going to Nicaragua for five days with me, and then I'll continue to South Africa from there?"

My heart almost burst. The smile that spread across my face was instantaneous. The darkness of our room hid my reaction, so that he couldn't bear witness to my smile, the blush that took over my cheeks, the unadulterated thrill in my eyes.

"Really?" I asked, like a kid who's just been presented with a gift she never thought she'd be lucky enough to receive. "Seriously?"

"Yes," he said, his voice soft. But not soft like giving in to the demands of your girlfriend, but soft like yes, you can believe in it.

"But will you have enough time in South Africa, then?" My question was serious. We had been talking about his trip earlier, a lighthearted conversation in which I told him I was happy with the decision I'd made to not go, despite being told by almost everyone I know (besides my mom) that I should go, just to experience it.

"I don't want to drag you down," I told him. "I'm not sure I could handle it. I mean, there's a chance that I could - I don't know, since I've never done it...And I guess the only way to know is to try - but I don't want to go on the chance that I'd be good at it or enjoy it, and run the risk of dragging you down with ailments and whining. It's better if you just go by yourself and enjoy it. I'm scared of the bugs, the heat, the danger. You're not. If we could stay in a nice hotel, or go on a safari in a nice RV or something, with air conditioning, then I'd be in. But I just don't think I could do it the way you want to do it."

He seemed genuinely baffled by my view of the trip. "If you want to see these things from the window of an RV, then why not just watch it on TV?" he'd said.

"I'm perfectly happy with that," I replied.

"You just have no desire, do you?"

"No, babe, I don't. That's not my idea of a vacation. It just isn't. But I know it's yours. So you should go, and enjoy it."

He nodded, and I nodded, both of us content with our choices. I would love to go with him, I just can't. And I have to accept that wanting to be with him wherever he goes is not reason enough to let him take me to a place where I'm 99.9% sure I'll be miserable. I was comfortable with my decision, and happy that he'd get what he wants.

"I'm sure I'll have plenty of time in South Africa," he smiled, looking at me. He pointed to the screen in front of him. "I figure we'll spend maybe five days in Nicaragua, then maybe head to Costa Rica for a day or two. You'll love it there. It's beautiful. And I've lived there, so I know my way around. You'll be comfortable there," he said, his voice reassuring.

"Babe, I'd love to. But I don't want you to change your plans for me." My words were genuine. You always get what you want is one of Billy's most oft-repeated sentences to me. I didn't want this to be another one of those instances. As long as he wanted to do it, I'd be pleased. But if he didn't, that was another story.

"My friend just emailed me," he said, "and they're selling the bar I worked in while I lived there. And I really want you to see it. It's a huge part of my life. You have to see it."

I was overwhelmed. I was touched that, somewhere within him, he wanted me to go with him badly enough to go somewhere I'd be comfortable. And that feeling was compounded by him wanting me to see a huge part of his life before me.

I'd spent days grappling with how I felt about his trip. Deep down, I felt like he just didn't want me to go at all. That this was his time to get away from me, and this year he wanted to "get away" for the duration of his trip, to not share even a bit with me. And that's what hurt, that's what bothered me. Selfish as it was, I thought that him not choosing someplace where I could go meant he just didn't want me with him. I knew it was wrong, but feelings don't understand that. They just went ahead and let me take it as a personal affront. I listened to him say, over and over, that he wanted me to go along, I just didn't believe it. And, finally, I'd come to understand that it's not always about me. That him wanting to go had everything to do with him, who he is, and that I have to let that person live, not make him bend to my demands all the time.

And on the heels of my acceptance, he found a way to make me part of it. It's still tentative, but the fact that he asked me, the fact that he wants me to part of his present and his past, makes me melt. It's not about me getting my way, it's about him doing exactly what I would do for him, and, for that, I love him a little bit more each day.

About Blank

Roughly a year ago, we had this same conversation; the one where he tells me where he's going on his annual vacation, and asks me to come along.

Only, this year, he gave me instructions to go online and find out what would be required in order to go. Requirements in the vein of shots and clothing and pills that we'd need to bring to protect ourselves from the bugs, weather and water of South Africa.

Last year, when he talked about Belize, he just told me I couldn't wear heels. And even though the only "dangerous" part of that trip would be the danger of me without heels or makeup for ten whole days, I still wound up stranded with sun poisoning on the porch of our hotel room after gorging on the sun our first day there. I was only able to venture out for trips to a bar, a restaurant, some light shopping, and one day on a ridiculously beautiful island where I slathered myself in sunblock, powered through the horrible sun rash covering my body and snorkeled my way through the most beautiful water I'd ever seen. As far as adventure went, that was pretty much it. The rest of the time we sipped Panty Rippers and watched the water from our beach-front hammock. We read books and had long conversations, we smoked too many cigarettes and got tipsy from coconut rum and pineapple juice. For me, it was the perfect vacation. Relaxing, romantic, not demanding, and not at all scary like I'd imagined it would be.

"But, babe," Billy said last night over dinner, "I can't be stuck in a hotel room for ten days this year. I just can't."

I speared a roasted red potato and nodded, feeling a sense of dread sprinkled with anger take me over. "I know."

"So, listen," he moved around, trying to catch my eyes, as they had not left my plate since the conversation began - it's one of my trademarks for Angry. "Would you look at me?" I rolled my eyes, and then my head, and looked at him out of the corner of my eye, then relented and faced him completely. "I'm saying I want you to go, but I have to make sure you can handle it. Because you're going to get sick. I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to be hot, and there are going to be a lot of bugs, and you're going to have a fever, and you'll have chronic diarrhea. But I need to know that you can suck it up and still go on a safari for four days, or go cage diving. And as long as you can do that, then I can't wait for you to come with me."

Instead of offering anything, I just stared at him. I let silence and the ambient noise of the bar fill up the space where my words should've been. I let time click by while he stared at me, waiting for me to argue with him, to defend my abilities to hang in the wilds of South Africa, to make a case for myself even when I knew there was no merit to it, because that's what I do: I argue just to be contrary, just to win. Instead, I blinked, looked down at my plate, then back at him. "I think we both know the answer to that question."

He started to ask what that answer was, but I cut him off, "No. No, I can't handle it. Which you know. But you sound an awful lot like you're trying to convince me that I don't want to go, that I shouldn't try, so you can go by yourself. If you want to go alone, just tell me."

"Babe," he said, offering his hand on my thigh as comfort, or as proof of his sentiment. His voice was tender, his eyes soft. "That's not it at all. At all. I just want you to know, honestly, what it's going to be like. Because I can't be in a hotel room the whole time I'm there - there's a lot I want to do in South Africa. I skipped South Africa last year, remember? So that we could go to Belize instead, since it would be easier for you. But this year, I really want to go to South Africa. So as long as you're okay with all of that, I want you to come."

"Well, I can't. So..."

"So?"

I took a deep breath. "So I'm not going. You'll have your trip all to yourself this year."

And I was crushed saying it out loud. But I can't. Physically, I simply cannot handle the heat. I'm terrified of the "intestinal parasites" of which he spoke. I don't want malaria, and I don't want to have diarrhea eight times a day. I just don't. That does not sound like a vacation to me. It sounds miserable. Would I love to see Africa? Of course. But do I want to feel that I'm on the cusp of death and then stick myself in a dusty Jeep and ride around in the jungle for four days? Absolutely not. It has nothing to do with the fear of fitting in in a foreign country or trepidation to travel. It has everything to do with knowing that my body just will not be able to handle it. The heat alone is too much for me, never mind disease-carrying bugs. My idea of a vacation is lazy afternoons spent doing nothing, fruity cocktails, soft white hotel sheets; bars and restaurants and dancing and laughing. Not sickness and work. And I think a part of me was considering going simply because it's his annual trip that he's never let anyone take with him before, the fact that he wanted me to be with him, and the fact that it would be embarrassing to admit to his family "Billy's not taking me with him this year." But I had to forget about all of that and just admit that I wouldn't enjoy it, and I shouldn't go.

But I was still angry. Or hurt, more appropriately. Because he kept saying I can't be stuck in a hotel room for ten days, because it made me feel like he'd hated our trip last year. Like he resented that I held him back or something. Like I'm his albatross. And I loved that trip. It was one of the best memories I've ever made. I fought tears while I chewed through my steak.

"Don't be mad," he said, abandoning his plate altogether to look at me.

"I'm not," I said, almost inaudibly, not looking up.

"But you can't even look at me."

He was right. Because if I looked at him, I'd cry. And I couldn't have that. So I kept my eyes on my dinner plate, pushing around potatoes and veggies and juices and steak, trying to give my eyes something to focus on.

But my rapid blinking and attempts to distract myself were no match for my tears. They were determined to roll down my face, and pooled in the corners of my eyes - the holding pen for my emotions. "Well, there's nothing left to talk about. I'm not going. I wouldn't want to keep you locked up in a hotel room for ten days." Sarcasm rolled out of me, my anger in its verbal form.

He inhaled like he finally understood why I was upset. "Babe," he said softly. "I know what you're thinking. But I had a great time in Belize. That's why we picked that place, remember? There wasn't much to do, it was relaxing. It was your first trip out of the country, and it was perfect the way it was; That's what that vacation was for. We just can't do that in South Africa. There's too much to do."

I nodded slowly, indicating that I understood what he was saying but that I still had no intention of looking at him. I felt bruised and left out, and I just didn't have anything to say. I accepted that my passport pages would just have to go without a stamp from Africa, but just thinking of him gone for two weeks made me hurt already, and I didn't want to compound it by letting him convince me it was the right decision.

"Baby," he continued softly, "what am I supposed to do? I really want to go to South Africa. I've wanted to for a long time. And am I supposed to give that up because you don't want to go?"

I didn't know. My feelings about it were - are - mixed. On one hand, I say no. He shouldn't have to give it up. If it means that much to him, it means that much to me. And I don't want to drag him down and make his trip miserable, because, honestly, I do not want to go. Nor do I want to make him miss out on something that important to him. I want him to do what he wants to do. I don't want to hold him back.

But on the other hand, if the situation were reversed, I'd give it up for him. Because I'd rather spend my time with him somewhere where he's comfortable than make new memories without him in them.

What I Wouldn't Give

This morning on my way into work, I drove through a shower of leaves. Already golden and bronze, they danced through the air above the road, tumbling and spinning on their way to the other side of the thoroughfare. The huddled mass of them performed a serious of dainty pirouettes, blurry spirals, lazy swaying. Staring at them through my windshield, barreling toward them, I saw that it is actually fall.

And though I love autumn - the crisp coolness in the air, the warm colors it inspires, its call for red wine and desserts made with nutmeg - I'm not quite ready for it yet. I feel like it was just yesterday that I stopped wearing my jacket, and here it is already time to put them back on.

So days like this, when it's cool and not quite warm enough to go out without a sweater, I remember Belize. The hot wind, the thick air, the blaring sun. If I think hard enough, I can remember what it was like to wear my bathing suit every day, to dread the need for an actual shirt. I can remember the sand between my toes and the sun on my shoulders.

First Full Day in Belize

Days like this, I want to go back, if not just for a day, to taste the warmth and feel the breeze that I won't find here for another eight months.

Ruined

On day six of our seven-day vacation, a whittled-down portion of Billy's family and I decided to take a trip to see some Mayan ruins about half an hour away from our hotel in Playa del Carmen. The six of us pushed our way through the heat and humidity and climbed into the very van we had driven the two hours from our place in Merida to our brand new hotel in Playa. We picked our seats, pointed air-conditioner vents directly at our heads, and were ready to go.

The drive was spent, in large part, talking about how oppressively hot it was outside. Although we never actually witnessed a thermometer or weather man saying so, we believed it to be roughly four hundred and thirty nine degrees outside, with 8,562,264% humidity. Save for one brief interlude with a small monsoon, the sun was bright and strong and the air was thick and wet for each moment of each of our seven days south of the border.

The sun and I do not get along well. Sure, I love to spend time in the sun, and I enjoy a beautiful warm day just as much as the next person, but the time that the sun and I are allowed to commingle is very limited. And, though I can go out into our watered-down Pennsylvania sun for many, many hours, it seems that the sun found in states such as Nevada and Florida, as well as the sun in Belize and Mexico, has little to no use for me. More than a few hours, and my formerly starting-to-tan skin turns a bright shade of burnt, and I know I'm fucked.

Roughly four days into our vacation, my skin began to itch. It's a bad sign of a problem I encounter with pretty much every vacation I take to sunny climates: Sun poisoning. It usually affects my just my back and my chest, though sometimes it creeps down my arms, and occasionally down my stomach and onto my legs. Only mildly uncomfortable, the sun poisoning wouldn't bother me so much if it weren't so hideous to look at. Bright red splotches erupt first on my chest, in the cozy little nook between my boobs. It starts there, the rash spreading not unlike mold, taking root in one section of my skin and working its way outward and up. Before long, what look like small continents of red bumps cover my chest and shoulders, rendering all of the cute low-cut tops I brought along with me completely useless. If I'm lucky, it stops there.

Mexico, however, had other plans for me. My rash decided to stretch out and cover my entire upper half, little islands of blotches staking their claim on my shoulder blades, my arms, and along my spine. Though it limited itself to the upper half of my torso, it was of no comfort. Now I looked like a leper coming and going.

It was probably the fifth day of my vacation that my sun-poisoning really kicked it into high gear, taking up residence on, not only my chest and back, but my tummy and my thighs as well. After each shower, I would, quick, run to the mirror, hoping against hope that some mysterious salve in Mexico's water had miraculously and suddenly cleared my rash. And each time, I gazed upon my naked body only to be greeted by new strains of my rash, the fluorescent lighting of the hotel bathroom multiplying the horror exponentially.

"It's not that bad," Billy would say, walking up behind me and wrapping his arms around me.

"Yes it is," I'd mumble, dejected and sad, fingering the brightest and reddest patch of poisoning on my collarbone. "It's so gross."

"You look beautiful," he'd say.

"Yeah, but you love me. It's different."

And, with that, I'd put on whatever outfit I thought would best cover my rash, or at the very least, whatever outfit would distract the average eye from the rash. Then, I'd go about trying to figure out how I could spend the next twelve hours either indoors, or in the shade.

This proved to be difficult, as this vacation was of the family variety. Traveling in a pack makes it difficult for one to insist that, though we are in Mexico and staying ten paces from one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, we should find the nearest air-conditioned bar and stay in it until the sun goes down. And though I was vetoed nearly every day, Billy's family was quite sympathetic to my plight, offering me seats in the shade and allowing me to bow out of any activity that involved too much sun exposure.

The sixth day, however, I just couldn't reason trading a Mayan ruin for another vodka-tonic. So I wore a t-shirt and a skirt - covering what rash I could, and deciding not to care about the still visible rash my fashion choices wouldn't cover - and climbed in the van with the rest of my party.

It was when we were about halfway to the ruins that it occurred to me that it was roughly noontime, the witching hour of Mexico. I can sweat sitting still in the shade at this hour, and we were headed somewhere where walking would be involved. "Are there any trees in Tulum? You know, trees for shade?" I asked Billy, eyeballing the jungly landscape.

"No, not really. Just ruins." My skin began to whimper prematurely, burning already just at the threat of sun. Billy looked over. "We can get you an umbrella or something," he offered.

"Listen," I said sternly, pointing a manicured finger at him, "I am not carrying around a frickin' umbrella, okay? My rash is bad enough as it is, I don't need to highlight the fact that I'm clearly unwell. I may be able to pass people undetected looking like this, but bringing an umbrella into the mix is certain to draw attention to what would appear to most as a skin disorder. No thank you."

He shrugged his shoulders and said okay, but the tone in his voice taunted me: "You'll be sorry," it cried. My skin acted tough, but it was scared.

In refusing to take the umbrella, though, I was forced to shade myself by other means. This included hopping from tree to tree, shady spot to shady spot, in an attempt to limit the amount of time I spent baking directly beneath the sun's scalding rays. Turns out, sun rash doesn't much care how many actual minutes you spend in the sun, it's going to itch and be uncomfortable either way. So I scratched and whined silently through the majestic ruins, only to discover that where the sun doesn't get me, the bugs will.

I climbed back into the van, a scant forty minutes later, with new splotches of rash and brand new mosquito bites to show for my trip. Looking at my own legs made me queasy. I rubbed Benadryl cream all over my arms and legs and tried my best to ignore it.

We pulled into our hotel and headed in the direction of our rooms. News in Billy's family spreads fast, and it turned out that a 4 wheeling expedition had been planned. Anyone who wanted to go should just turn right back around, climb in the van, and meet the rest of the family for a bumpy ride.

"Do you want to go?" Billy said, smiling at the thought of doing something crazy, involving risk and possible injury in one fell swoop.

I stared at him blankly. A few seconds passed with our eyes locked, his face hopeful and excited, mine full of confusion and disgust. "Look at me!" I demanded. I backed up and spread out my extremities to give him a better view of my body. "My skin is in ruins! I'm wearing band-aids to cover my surgical incisions! My belly button is still raw! I have a rash!" I pointed to a bug bite that had metastisized into what appeared to be a softball beneath my skin. "I don't even know what that is, but I'm sure it's nothing good." I looked at him quizzically. "Do you really think I want to try my luck with something that involves speed, wheels, dirt, bugs and sun?"

"I'll see you as soon as we're done," he said, kissing my cheek.

And I headed straight for the shade near the clear pool and nursed my wounds with the most effective medicine around: Vodka.

Olè

He took one deep inhale and went under, the outline of his body wiggling under the rippled surface of the water as he swam the entire length of the pool. From my vantage point in the shade, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, body coated with layers of sunscreen and expression covered by a thick hardcover book, I saw his hair break the surface first, then his tanned torso, his new swimming shorts. He stood at the lip of concrete across the deck from me, his long fingers moving over his face to move water from his eyes. I couldn't help but smile to myself, watching him navigate the warm water, back to his family. He's incredible. I can't believe how lucky I am that he loves me. He's mine.

There are moments, in every relationship, when a girl looks at her other half and is overcome by gratitude and pride. I have those moments often; when he's sleeping beside me, and I've not yet fallen into sleep, when he does something warm and thoughtful for someone he loves, when he sings, loud and passionately, in the car next to me. It doesn't take much to make me glad we found each other, to make me grateful for whatever brought us together and kept us that way. There's just something there that keeps me happy, that reminds me, constantly, how lucky I am.

Our first full day in Mexico, Billy's family and I loaded ourselves into a caravan of vehicles that drove us hours out of where we were staying in Merida and into what we believed was the middle of nowhere. Wearing sneakers purchased on a random street corner in a small Mexican town between our hotel and our destination, we headed out to acres and acres of land used to train bull fighters.

We were told that we'd all have an opportunity to stand in the down-scaled arena and wave red capes at large bulls. The boys in the group regressed to twelve year olds, excited at the notion of bull fighting, where the women begrudgingly tied on their tennis shoes, crossed their arms, and maintained that, though we would watch, there would be no place in the arena for us.

We pulled up to the gate that led to the property, our vans rolling over two thin tire lines of dirt road, and parked just in front of a large tent that had been set up for shade. We exited the lush air conditioned seats of our rides and slid out into the heat. We sprayed ourselves with bug repellent to deter the large insects that clung to our vehicles on our drive in, we applied sunblock to the appropriate places, and headed for shade. A band of four men began playing, the thump of their one drum and the smooth shriek of their horns carrying us into the day. I held Billy's hand and smiled, feeling the music in my chest, and knowing I was seeing something I'd never, ever see if not for him.

We were herded to the arena, where we took our seats on an elevated platform over the dusty floor on which the matadors train. The band squeezed in behind our large group and played to us while we took our beers and then our seats and prepared to watch. Spanish words buzzed around me like flies, bouncing off of the trees and the watery green grass of the surrounding fields. Off in the distance, large bulls, deep black and imposing, stood in shallow water and watched us, watching them. Giddy with excitement, we buzzed with laughter and chatter, beneath the blare of the music behind us, and the Mexican sun right over our heads.

"Shhh," Billy's uncle said, using his hand to instruct us to lower our volume. "All the noise is scaring the bull."

The sudden quiet of our group allowed us to hear the thick thump of a bull's body, moving behind a weathered wooden gate. Amazed silence ushered the animal into the arena.

She burst into the arena, barreling through the gate and into the large empty space waiting for her. She stopped, mid-run, and looked around getting her bearings. We whispered to one another, some relatives telling others that the bulls we would be seeing were females, not males like we thought. Despite the horns and the moniker of "bull," which we all believed implied "male," the bulls here were the ladies, the ones that breed the hostility necessary in the male fighting bulls. There was no killing here; the bulls we were watching were actually being watched for their temperaments, the angriest, most aggressive ones being the ladies picked to mate with the hulking bulls standing off in the distance. We widened our eyes and nodded our heads, satisfied with learning something new.

The bull, her fat horns leading the way, began to run around, looking for something. From beneath our seating area, a man, wearing jeans, a button down shirt, and a cowboy hat, strode, chest puffed out, into the center of the dirt, calling out to get the bull's attention. She charged him, her body building force and speed each time her heavy hooves whacked the dirt beneath her. He swung the cape, taunting her, lifting it just as she barreled through it. We clapped and cheered, the band churning to start behind us. I looked up at Billy. "Oh my God," I said to him, my face full of sunshine and shock. "This is incredible."

He smiled back at me, his excitement evident even behind his dark glasses. "I know. I'm glad you like it."

We cheered and screamed and "Olè"d our way through two matadors and two bulls. Billy, tall and obvious beside me, continued to boast that he could do it through his smile. The matador below turned and beckoned him down. "Me?" Billy said, pointing at his own chest, then turning to look behind him. In one motion, all twenty or so of us turned our worried and expectant faces toward him. The matador's voice crawled up the concrete to us: "Si."

So Billy kissed me, and went.

Moments later, in his khaki shorts and short sleeved shirt, he strode into the arena with the same barrel-chested posture and confidence of the true matadors before him. From his long arm dangled the bright red cape and, in Spanish, he called from below us to the band behind us and asked for music. They bubbled to a start, all of us clapping in time with the thick sound of the drum as the bull took notice of Billy.

He looked flawless there, his long legs carrying him out into the center of the circle. Though he may have been scared, his features didn't betray him. He was smooth and certain, his long spine straight and full of bravado. Despite the fact that he was feet taller then the men who briefly showed him what to do, despite his inappropriate dress for the arena, he somehow looked like he belonged there. But with Billy, he always looks like he belongs, just as he his.

I clapped until my hands stung for him, screaming my support, but checking my worry and reminding myself that "he'll be fine." I watched him use his effortless Spanish to call the bull over, to let her know he was there, waiting for her. She outweighed him by hundreds of pounds, and he was calling her, taunting her.

The cape moved steadily, rippling behind his sweeping arm perfectly. I cheered for him, through each swift movement of the cape, through each last-second side-stepping of the bull. I laughed nervously, a small sliver of worry still pricking me as he moved. But I was proud; of how good he was, of how brave he was, of his desire to just try, because when in his life would he ever again have the chance to step into an arena with a cape and a bull.

After a handful of successful passes, Billy turned to us, his adoring audience, and took a bow, then exited the same way he went in: Back straight, at full height, filled to the brim with confidence. We applauded him during his exit. And while I clapped and shouted for him, I watched him and thought, God, he's incredible. And he's mine.

I'm Baaa-aaak!

But I'm busy.

My trip was incredible. And, although I did not fall prey to the infamous Montezuma's Revenge brought on by drinking the water and eating native, uncooked veggies of Mexico, I did come home with a glorious rash brought on by a mix of sun poisoning and the heat. And when I say "heat," I mean "Hey, am I in Mexico, or am I on the surface of the sun?" Seriously, I didn't know that I was capable of sweating while standing, or sitting, still. But it was beautiful, and so much fun. It went by way too fast.

It's good to be home, though. I missed my bed, my computer, my cell phone, my comfort foods, and you guys.

I promise to write very soon. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to catch up with some work that went undone while I was busy getting a rash across my upper body.

Fear and Loathing in Lake Mohonk

We sat down at dinner, after a day full of decadent bliss - massages, eucalyptus steam baths, a dip in a mineral pool, calming tea, a bushel of grapes - in Mohonk Mountain House's luxurious dining hall. In our semi-formal dinner attire, we took a seat in the middle of the hall, surrounded by dark wood floors, thick beams, shiny silverware, other well-dressed patrons. We held hands over the table's linen and gave our drink orders to our young waitress. I felt hopelessly elegant there, rich and classy, in my cream-colored stilettos with my handsome boyfriend in his suit jacket. The whole day was positively lousy with romance, if for no other reason than it was a day of just Billy and me, indulging in things we never, ever get a chance to do. We chose our four-course dinners while I gushed to him over everything that we had done, over how enamored I still am of him.

The whole day was perfect, one non-stop festival of smooth pleasure. Our 7:00 dinner was the crowning jewel of our day. Except for one thing: The man sitting next to us.

He his party, four of them in total, followed the hostess to the table just to my right, and instantly began complaining.

"Well, I'm sorry sir, but that table is taken," the hostess said apologetically. Everyone there was friendly and accommodating, lending an extra air of luxury to the resort.

"We wanted to be seated at the window," the tall, portly man protested, his voice much louder than necessary.

"Tables are first come, first serve, sir." The hostess gave a smile that suggested both her regret and the fact that there was nothing she could do for him.

"But we have reservations."

"Everyone here has reservations," she reminded him. "So the table you get depends on your time of arrival. Had you arrived at your reserved time of seven, or a few moments before, we would have been happy to seat you near a window. It is, though, quarter-past, and that table has been taken."

"We'll wait then," he said gruffly.

"Unfortunately, sir, we are reserved for the rest of the evening. So I'll have to ask you to sit here. And I do apologize for the inconvenience."

"Fine," he said, throwing up his chubby hands. "I'm not happy about it," he warned, "but we'll sit here."

They took their seats, and the fat man took to entertaining his three dinner partners.

"Look at that guy," I whispered to Billy, tilting my head in the man's direction. "He started complaining before he even sat down." Billy looked at him, shrugged, and took a sip of his water. He didn't seem to care about our neighbor or his attitude, but I did. I was sucked in to the drama of their four-top.

I faded out of their conversation, irritated by the man's obnoxious demeanor, and back into a dialogue with Billy. Somewhere, when I wasn't paying attention, their young waiter arrived at their table.

The next thing I heard was this:

"I just need you to tell me," said the fat man, forcibly, "where this shiraz comes from. Is it Australia? Probably, it's Australia, but I need you to tell me where, in particular, this wine comes from." His chubby finger was jamming against the paper in front of him, his eyes glaring at the nineteen year old serving him.

The waiter advised that their wine list has the origins of each wine, but since the man was just looking at the waiter's notes, there would be no indication there. The poor waiter's booklet, with his orders from each table, the specials, and God-knows what else waiters keep in those things, was clutched in the chubby fist of the man, who I surmise must've strong-armed it away from the lad at some point during his specials speech.

"Yes, well, wine lists usually do have the locations." The condescension was unnecessary. "But I just need you to tell me where it's from." Apparently, the waiter was being quizzed.

The waiter reached helplessly for his book, to no avail. It was in the clutches of his customer, and would not be released until origin of each wine was given. The man began to flip through the different papers in the book, while the waiter stood over him, obviously overwhelmed by this man's gall. "I'll be happy to get you a wine list, sir."

"Forget it. That'll just take too long. My wife and I," he said, pointing to the hunched-over woman to his right, "will have the shiraz. I hope it's from Australia." He handed back the book, it being of no use to him anymore.

Again, I tapped Billy's hand and nodded my head in the man's direction. "Check this guy out, listen to him about the wines!" I whispered, this time with a ferocity in my voice that indicated it was worth paying attention to.

The man began to explain to his three bored guests the difference between various red wines. He was spelling shiraz a number of different ways, and explaining how each spelling indicated its place of origin. He capped off his impromptu wine class with something like "It's tough to go out to eat when you know so much about wine." He sighed, clearly feeling the burden of the wealth of knowledge he possesses.

"He probably just went to one of the wineries in this area," I said to Billy in a hushed tone, "and now he's an 'expert.'" I used air quotes.

"I bet 'he is,'" Billy replied, using his own set of air quotes and rolling his eyes at the guy.

The young waiter, who was starting to look scared and flustered, delivered the wine. We watched as the glass was set on the table, then as the man peered at the glass through squinty eyes. The waiter had begun to leave the table, for one of the many other tables for which he was responsible, when he was summoned back by the sausage-like finger of the man.

He lifted the glass and handed it back to the waiter with a look of disgust on his face so profound you'd think he found feces floating among his shirraaaazzz. "There's a spot on this glass," he said, the anger in his voice matching the disgust on his face. "What about yours," he said quickly to his wife, "check yours for spots, too." The wife just shook her head no. I wondered if she was embarrassed.

"I would totally spit in his wine," I said to Billy, now less anxious to lower my voice. There's a line between obnoxious and asshole, and this guy had a foot on either side.

When it came time to order, the waiter looked terrified. He just knew he was going to be subject to all sorts of questions. He was right.

"This seaweed salad. Is it real seaweed?" ("No," I said to Billy, whose eyes were glued, like mine, to the exchange at our neighboring table, "it's the fake stuff you put in fish tanks.")

"These wasabi mashed potatoes. What's wasabi?"

"Is this Angus steak very fatty?"

"This truffle dressing on the salad, what does it taste like?"

"How big is the sirloin?"

The waiter looked harried. He couldn't walk up to or leave that table without a million questions. I could sense his dread as he neared our section, aware that, no matter where he was headed, this man would summon him.

When the waiter wasn't standing right beside him, awkward and unsure, the man was busying himself by not letting anyone else at his table talk. He told story after story, looking to his wife for confirmation of each story ("Remember that time, in The City?") but not allowing her to actually say yes or no. The volume of his voice suggested his companions were hard of hearing, though they didn't seem to be. It seemed to me that he just believed he was very important, and that he wanted everyone around him to believe it, too. He punctuated his sentences with a shake or a stab of his corpulent hand, his too-tight-pinky ring reflecting the candle on their table. He laughed loudly enough to ensure that the entire resort could hear him, flashing his gold-capped rear tooth. His jowls shook with his raucous laughter, though those seated around him rarely did more than chuckle. He was clearly his own biggest fan.

When the waiter returned with the food and set it before each guest, the man questioned him. "Are you sure that's right? Because she," he said, pointing to the lady opposite him, "asked for no wasabi." He threw the word around like he was an old pro about wasabi, regardless of the fact that, moments ago, he had to ask what it was. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," the waiter mumbled.

I leaned into Billy, stupefied by this man. "So how much gross shit do you think they put in this jackass's meal?"

"As much as they could fit."

"Do you think his wife in embarrassed? I bet he does this all the time. Probably, like, every time they go out to dinner, he asks a million questions and acts like an authority on everything. I bet she hates going out to dinner, and usually avoids it at all costs."

"Maybe that's why she's sitting like that," Billy suggested, pointing to the wife's body language. When not eating, she sat with her body angled away from her husband, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She looked dejected, resigned to sit next to this man. The other people at their table sat uncomfortably, picking at their food or wiping away the condensation from their glasses. No one wanted to make eye contact with him, as though doing so would inspire him to tell you something he thought you didn't know. But even though no one looked at him, he never stopped talking.

Once the meals were all placed on the table, everyone but him picked up their forks and began the picking process, where they push the food around, examining it from each angle before tearing into their meat and potatoes. He, on the other hand, took a moment to tuck his linen napkin into his shirt.

"I am now," I said to Billy, disgusted, "licensed to hate this ass. Look at him." We glared in his direction. "You're not eating lobster, mothafucker. You're eating steak. Is it necessary? The napkin in the shirt," I said quietly. There was just something about that maneuver that seemed so smug, so asshole-ish.

Suddenly, there was activity at his table. He was searching for the waiter, with vigor. "Chris," he said, because apparently they were now friendly, "you got that wrong," he said, pointing with his fork his wife's meal. His double chin was sadly highlighted by the napkin tucked into his collar and he was chewing a piece of steak as he spoke. "She wanted wasabi, and she," he pointed his fork at the lady opposite him, "didn't want any. Are you sure you got it right?"

"Yes sir, I am."

"Actually, I think we're all wasabi-less." He paused for a second, chewing and assessing the bite he was taking as he spoke. "You said wasabi was spicy. This isn't spicy."

"I'm sorry, sir, but the only one without wasabi was her meal," he gestured to the woman. He waited for a second, then nodded and went to move away from the table.

"One more thing!" cried the man, obnoxiously swallowing his wasabi-less bite. "Close those blinds. Thanks." He gestured to the windows that lined the entire dining room. Apparently, the supple pink sunset did nothing for his appetite if he wasn't sitting at a window actually appreciating it. "It's too bright in here." He gestured to the other man at the table. "He's got sunlight right in his face."

"I'm fine, really," said the man, shooing away the instructions.

The fat man looked at him, his napkin-turned-bib swishing as his head turned. "No you're not. You're blinded by sun." He turned his attention to the waiter. "Close 'em." And we went back to his steak.

It was seriously almost as if he was still upset about not sitting by the window, and in seeing the sunset light creep through the dining room, he saw his opportunity to ruin it for everybody else.

"I hate that guy," Billy seethed. We were now blatantly staring, and no longer keeping our voices to a whisper. "What a dick."

"I feel bad for the waiter," I said, glancing at the frazzled boy who was clearly falling behind on his other tables because of this guy.

I've heard tales of these kinds of diners, but I've never actually seen one in action. I surprised myself with how much I despised him. I wanted to throw my dinner rolls at him. I wanted to go over and tell him that nobody is impressed. I wanted to walk by his table, lean over his fat back and whisper seductively, "I hope you know that every waiter in here took turns spitting in your meal tonight, asshole."

We grabbed our waitress. Billy motioned her closer and leaned in. "Could you tell that waiter," he pointed at the young man as he scuttled by, "that we're sorry that guy at that table is such a dick?"

She laughed and asked why. We told her the abridged version of the evening. "And just tell him that we feel really bad for him, that we're confirming that guy really is an asshole. Tell him we hope he has a good night when that table leaves." I, personally, don't know how waiters and waitresses do it. I have so much respect for them. I worked for one day in a restaurant, and I couldn't handle it. I don't know how they keep their composure.

"That is so nice to hear," she said. "Sometimes you think it's you, you know?"

"Oh, it's not him," I said. "It's that guy."

"Yeah, we hate him," Billy added. "Just not as much as his waiter does."

We Land

A full day of flying has brought us here, to a dusty airport in what I assume is the middle of Belize City. Employees of the airport wheel two flights of stairs to our idling plane, securing the steps to the open doors while we in the plane clamor for our place in the exit line. Carry-ons drop from overhead compartments, bags are flung over shoulders, hair is fluffed, legs are finally, blissfully stretched. I peer out of my window while the heat from outside slowly makes it way into the aircraft, gliding over us as we wait, wait, wait. Finally, word is given that we’re free to disembark, and Billy and I shuffle our way out of the back of the plane. “I love this, in these countries, where they put steps in the front and the back,” he says over his shoulder as he leads me out. We step out into the heat, onto the tarmac, following our fellow fliers into the airport.

Everything is brown. Brown building, brown dust, brown people. Over the airport I can see palm trees, blue sky. The side of the building announces something in Spanish, words adhered to a stucco exterior. I look up at Billy expectantly, a smile spreading across my face. We’re really here. Oh my God. We made it. It didn’t seem real, even all that time in the plane and I still hadn’t quite wrapped my brain around the fact that I’d actually be somewhere when we landed.

I try to look casual, like I know what I’m doing. Like I’m not impressed. But I am. Because it’s different. Billy holds my hand tightly as I survey my surroundings like a kid, taking in every detail; smelling the air, noticing the way the breeze feels against my bare arms. He kisses me, mid-stride. “We’re here,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I know,” I say, amazed at the truth of it.

Everything about the airport is different than what I’m used to. The wide doors, the lack of a food court, the quaint set up. The toilet water is warm beneath me, the water from the faucet only comes out cold. There’s no air conditioning. The sweat accumulating on my upper lip and beneath my tank top just heightens my experience. I rush from the ladies’ room to Billy’s side, giddy like a school girl.

We make our way to the Customs line, passports and declaration forms in hand. I have no idea what to do, so I watch Billy for clues. At twenty-five, I've never traveled out of the US, but Billy had 28 countries under his belt before we arrived here in Belize. I love that I know he’s here to guide me, because I feel suddenly stripped of any knowledge I’ve ever had, unsure of what to do, just standing there with my passport, waiting to gain access to my vacation. We talk about nothing in particular, me with my eyes glued to the space just beyond the Customs Guy. As soon as I’m on the other side of him, I’m actually in a new country for the first time in my life. Once we're beyond the man behind the desk, we're legally on vacation.

A sweaty man in a button down shirt calls us up to his desk, his hand already outstretched for our documents. I can’t stop smiling while he circles and makes notes on my little declaration form. No, I’m not carrying any beef. Yes, I’m from the US. No, we don’t know where we’ll be staying. He takes out his stamp, thumps it against an inkpad and slams it into the clean pages of my blue passport. Billy, his hand wrapped around mine, nudges me with his hip. I look up at him and smile. I actually want to cry. “I’ve been stamped,” I say. “My first stamp!” I celebrate quietly as we collect our things and head to baggage claim.

Billy surveys the room, looking for other backpackers from whom we can gain direction. But there are none. I keep my eye on the slow turnstile that unleashes a parade of bags for all of us recently-landed tourists. Our backpacks, his red one and my gray one, make their way to us, and we grab their straps, still warm from the Belize sun outside.

With our backpacks secured to our bodies, we make our way to the main “terminal,” which, unlike the airports I’m used to, is just another room in the same small building. Our Belize book is tucked into one of the backpacks we’re carrying, and from that, we’ve deduced that Belize is not a country that boasts beaches. Famous for its coral, most of its sea side communities offer docks on which to enjoy the water; their beaches are more rock and coral than sand and waves. So we decide to book a flight to Placencia, a travel move made on the direction of Billy’s cousin, who promises quaint beauty and quiet beaches.

I stand behind Billy in line, letting him do the talking and make the decisions. Even though everyone around us speaks English, this is all new to me; The country, this method of travel. I'm accustomed to flying with bags of tightly-packed luggage secured beneath me on the plane, suitcases full of shoes and makeup, glittery tops for going out, casual clothes for milling about whatever city I'm in. But this is new, traveling with only a backpack's worth of belongings. No heels, no makeup. I'm not used to picking where we'll be headed upon our arrival, I'm used to knowing exactly what hotel I'll be calling home. But this was our deal: He brings me along on his annual vacation to somewhere, and I have to travel his way. Forsaking my makeup, my heels, my glittery tops.

I adjust my weight from side to side as Billy asks the Tropic Air agent, a smooth mocha woman with bright teeth and a wide smile, about the flights they offer. His speech takes on a different cadence as they speak, claiming an accent similar to hers. No contractions, no big words; simple English with clipped consonants and sharp vowels. I giggle to myself as he secures our seats on the plane.

We board a small plane, choosing solitary seats across the aisle from one another, both with views of the water over which we're flying. I've never seen anything like it in my life, all of this water, so clear and such a perfect shade of turquoise. We hold hands across the space between us while he laughs at my unbridled excitement. I look at him, saying with my wide eyes that I can't believe it.

Three stops later, and we're in Placencia. We make our way out of the 12-seater airplane and into the wide-open airport, sliding through the thick heat on our way inside. A sign on the door, "No shoes, no problem. No shirt, problem," makes us chuckle as we enter. "They do call it 'Barefoot Paradise,'" he reminds me, pulling open the door and letting me go ahead of him. We are lead to the taxi we've requested, and climb inside the back of a mangy old minivan. Billy tells the driver the name of a hotel he read about on the plane ride. The car bucks and lurches to start as the pock-marked driver nods and says "No problem."

We drive over bumpy dirt roads, as Billy recalls his days in Africa. He tells me about the public transportation there, how, in Ghana, there would be maybe ten or fifteen people squeezed into the five seats our taxi offers. I try to listen intently, but I'm too wrapped up in what's just beyond him, outside of the dusty windows. We heave through ruts and over blemishes on the dirt road, taking a narrow passage that squeezes between the ocean and a field of lush grass. We fly down a poorly paved road, where small buildings - homes and businesses - litter the low shoulder. We come into town, one road snaking through crisp white buildings, with tropically painted trim. Aquamarine, fuscia, orange, they pop out and away from the homes they highlight.

The driver stops in front of a small restaurant. "Here you are," he says to Billy. We look around and see nothing, beyond some residential homes, a few restaurants, a pharmacy. "Sea Spray?" Billy asks, loudly enough to be heard over the whining engine of the car. "Yeah," the driver says, turning his large body and opening his door. He lumbers around the vehicle and opens the back of the van. He pulls out our backpacks while we squirm out of the side door. "Sea Spray," he continues, dropping our packs on the dusty road at his bare feet, "is just that way." He points between the two buildings in front of us, nodding at the elevated sidewalk stretched between them. "Follow that," he says. "You'll see it."

We heft our backpacks over our shoulders and do as we're told, stepping up onto the narrow beige footpath. Conversations drift out of the screened windows of the buildings around us. Spanish music in one home, rap blasting from another. Coffee colored children run toward and around us, hopping off of the sidewalk and into the sand to pass. Bright pink flowers fall from imposing bushes sprouting from the sand, and, just off in the distance, we can hear the ocean.

We cross a T in the sidewalk and there, nestled behind squat palm trees, is our hotel of choice. Their lobby is a small building, just a desk and four walls, open to the sidewalk and, behind it, the beach. Billy talks to the man on duty and I peer out the back door. My shoes, flat-soled and pink, have trapped sand between my toes. I'm sweaty, and travel weary. But I'm in awe. It's dusk, and through the narrow door of the hotel, I can see the ocean. Palm trees undulate over clean sand, the remnants of the sun dancing over bright blue water. So this is why he travels so much, I think to myself, resting my shoulder on the door frame. I could finally see it, the draw to be somewhere different, somewhere new. The view, my surroundings, the town: They were all a surprise, a welcome diversion from what I see, day in, day out.

"You ready?" Billy says from behind me, chin hooked over my shoulder, taking in the same sight as me. He dangles a key in front of our shared view, and scoots around me to lead the way. I don't even have to answer.

Our second-story room is simple - seafoam walls hugging a basic bed, a bathroom, a small TV. But what it lacks in amenities it more than makes up for in location. The windows and the back door open to a porch, replete with multi-hued hammock and wooden beach chairs. The railing gives way to beach below us, affording us our own private view of the shore line, the water, the sky. The air is thick inside, and the single ceiling fan offers little relief. But out on the porch, a steady breeze flies up from the water, tousling my hair and ruffling my skirt with cool, damp fingers. Billy exhales and stretches out in the hammock, his long body curling the fabric into a lone parenthesis. He stretches his slender arms and rests them behind his head as I rest my elbows on the white railing. "What do you think?" he says, eyes closed. I look at him. "I think it's amazing," I reply, before resting my eyes back on the ocean before us.

Dusk has passed by the time we settle into our room, and we make our way to the restaurant a short walk from our hotel. The restaurant sits right on the shore, the thatched roof stretching over our heads the only thing between us and the air. We order drinks and seafood, and look out on the moon-kissed ocean while we wait.

Sweaty glasses of coconut rum and pineapple juice are set on the table by our smiling waitress. Billy makes a lazy circle in his drink with his straw, then sets the straw on the table. With his long fingers, he lifts his glass, tilting it toward me. "Toast?"

I smile, bowing my head and tucking my hair behind my ear. I take my own glass and hold it even to his.

"To us," he says, "for making it to Belize." I nod and pull my drink toward me. "And," he says, "to you. To your first trip away from America."

"To me," I agree, laughing. We take sips of our sweet beverages and resume staring at our new surroundings.

Bellies full, we take walk down the deserted beach. Shoes in hand, our toes slip through the sand as we head to no place in particular. "I do believe," Billy's shadowed figure says to me, "that this is officially a romantic moment. Moonlit walk, sand, ocean, foreign country." I agree with him, leading us to a pair of unoccupied beach chairs.

We rest our tired bodies in the whitewashed seats, our legs stretched out in front of us. "So, what do you think?" He asks me again.

I turn my body to look at him in the dark, and offer him a serene smile.

"I can't believe I'm here."

Remains

Hot. Humid. Thick. That's the air when, abruptly and without warning, Belize goes still. Wind gushes off of the ocean directly through the seaside village of Placencia, brushing residents and tourists with cool hands, forever ruffling hair and tossing napkins from tables and bars. But, from time to time, the wind stops, mid-blow, as if second guessing herself. "Wait. Is this too much?" she says, forcing palm trees to finally stand at attention. And, in the wake of her sudden uncertainty, your world stops. You feel every molecule of the heat, its syrupy texture as you move through it. You are suddenly aware of the stickiness on your skin about which you, just seconds ago, had forgotten. The wind, she made you feel smooth, soft. Sand, the gritty handfuls of it that cover every walked-upon surface, radiates and tosses up at you the heat it's been holding all day, as though it had been waiting for just this moment. And you cease to move, unwilling to exert yourself, holding your body still, suspended in mid-action, just waiting for the stillness to pass. And, just as quickly as she paused, the wind begins again, shaking the thick waxy leaves of tropical trees, rustling the palms, soothing away the sweat that just begun to form on your upper lip. You resume eating, talking, reaching, walking...Whatever it was you were doing before you slammed head-first into the thickness of the heat.

When you're not in the middle of the wind's gusts, when you're stuck in the awkward shift from westward to eastward, you feel grimy, oil-covered, slick. You notice the sweat that's accumulated on your glass of cococut rum and pineapple juice. Your hands, even though you only just washed them, feel dirty, as though covered with food or sand or salt; Remains of the wind. And you curse, wiping your palms on your pants. "This wind," you say, shaking your head and searching your fingers for visible dirt. "It's driving me crazy."

But she doesn't drive you crazy. She's comforting. You hear her constantly, nudging lazy waves to shore, shaking loose palm fronds, rattling a tin ashtray - She's everywhere, the subtext of every conversation, the soundtrack to your every action, in the soft cadence of the locals' accent. She slams closed the doors you carelessly left open. She plays practical jokes on you and your fellow diners, extinguishing the flame of lighters every time someone attempts to light a cigarette. Click-click-click, you hear as one smoker after another attempts to light up. They change positions, curl their fingers around their Bics. Click. They shift their shoulders to block her out. She giggles and circles them, rendering their cupped hands and hearty shoulders useless. When she's finally bored of this to and fro, she relents; lets you light.

She sings you to sleep each of the ten nights that you crawl - sunkissed and still warm - into bed, windows open to her. She greets you when you wake, pushing your skirt ahead of you as you walk across the sand courtyard from your hotel room to the restaurant to make your coffee. She turns the pages in the books you read on the porch. She tricked you into thinking you weren't getting burned by her big brother, the sun. But she kept the bugs away from your heat-rashed arms.

She was in your every step. She was with you at every dinner. She cooled your forehead and soothed your sunburn. And when it came time to board a plane and leave your boyfriend in Belize, while you flew home to America, she invited you to use her as an alibi for your watery eyes.

And you were grateful for her; For her soft caress on your moist arms, for her gentle touch, for her constant company. Just as you reach the top of the stairs that will take you into a plane and away from this country, she embraces you one last time, and howls goodbye.

Prelude to a Flight

He said "Let's get out of this country!" as we entered Newark International. His voice was tired, lightly laced with excitement and what I'd come to think of as his own version of fear.

We walked hand in hand to the appropriate international departure line, him in Travel Mode, me just realizing I was actually leaving the country. We were in the International Terminal, for Pete's sake. I'd never been in the International Terminal.

Our backpacks made us slouch. We were still groggy, tired from going to bed too late after spending a majority of the evening packing, and then getting up at four to make our early flight. I crumbled beneath the weight of the gray and yellow backpack, shifting my weight from one pink flat shoe to the other. My stomach twisted and turned, lurched and settled over and over again. I was excited. I was nervous. And I was a little afraid.

I wasn't afraid of the flight, or the prospect of ten days alone with Billy, or even the idea that I'd be backpacking in some foreign country. I was afraid I'd wreck it. A month's worth of exaggerated complaints rang in my ears as we watched one person after another get called to check in. I heard myself jokingly complaining about not wearing heels, not wearing makeup, carrying a backpack. I belatedly hoped he hadn't taken me seriously. I eyed him, as he dug his passport from the smaller of the two backpacks he was carrying, worried that he was worried about bringing me. I searched his preoccupied face for signs that he was scared, too: Scared that I'd be a pain in the ass to travel with. I stood up on my tippy-toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I smiled, wide and genuine. "I'm so excited," I said, like a kid on the brink of a trip to Disney. He smiled back. "Me, too, baby."

But I was unsatisfied with that. I felt like we were staring into the obvious, both finally acknowledging that I was completely out of my element. I looked down at my flat shoes, shifted my weight again.

He'd been reassuring me for weeks: "Don't worry, you'll love it. It'll be great. Give it a chance. You are going to have a great time." And, looking at him there, in the early-morning bustle of Newark, he looked just plain worn out. Tired of telling me it would be okay, that we'd have a great time - Like, instead of him convincing me of the awesome experience I was about to have, it turned out the other way around: I'd convinced him of my inability to adjust.

In line, silently, I chastised myself for complaining, for worrying out loud, for expressing my concerns, and acting nervous instead of excited for the past few weeks. "Hope you're happy," my Inner Kill Joy said to my Inner Weakling, "because now, I bet you he's sorry he asked you in the first place."

"You're probably right," my Inner Weakling sighed, just as she began to sulk.

But I was excited, now that we were actually standing in line there, my virginal passport sitting in my sweaty palm. Packing and traveling always stresses me out, never mind when I'm not working with excess suitcase space. I can never decide what to bring, picturing myself four days from that moment, longing for the tank top that I decided to leave out in order to take an extra pair of shoes. I can't make decisions, period: I'm the girl that stands in the shampoo aisle forever, endlessly reading and rereading the false promises and prices on two select bottles before finally taking one just to get myself out of Wal Mart. I didn't have those options, though, on this trip. Billy gave me a list: Two pairs of shoes, two pants, three skirts, seven shirts, bras, panties, bathing suits. I packed three pairs of shoes. I snuck in an extra skirt. And one more shirt just for good measure. But I still had room in my backpack. It wasn't as bad as I thought.

"I can't believe we're actually going," I said to Billy, grabbing his long arm with both of my hands and squeezing. "I am so excited."

"Me too." He kissed my forehead. But I felt like he was nervous. Like, in his head he was saying Calm down, it's okay. It'll be fun. She won't be difficult. She won't be a pain in the ass. It's okay. You didn't make a mistake in asking her...God. I wish I was alone.

"Well," my Inner Weakling said, mustering her strength in the eleventh hour, "it doesn't matter because you're here now, and you're going. And you know you're going to be fun to be with, and you're going to have a great time, and YOU know you're not going to complain. He's probably just stressed about travel. Don't worry about it. Enjoy yourself and for once don't over analyze everything. God. You drive ME crazy. And I'm part of you."

My Inner Kill Joy nodded. "She's right. Shut up."

"I can take the next passenger," the Continental agent at the end of the line said, beckoning us with a curl of his fingers.

The tension around Billy seemed to lift. As we started to walk, he grabbed my hand, smiled at me. "You ready?"

I was.

Highlights

There's a full post coming, but I'm at work, and there's a lot that needs to be done. A long vacation makes for lots of catching up.

But for now, a quick update:

I have a stamp on my passport.

We spent our entire time in Placencia, Belize. Which was incredible.

I read five books.

I went nine days without wearing heels. Because, I did buy and bring a pair of platform wedges, and insisted on wearing them one night. Standing at a bar with Billy, I admitted that I would've felt stupid had I worn stilettos. And I never wore the wedges again, because they are not conducive to walking in sand.

The only makeup I wore (if you don't count tinted moisturizer) was mascara, which I only applied twice during our ten day trip.

I snorkeled. There was a Lemon Shark in the water. Lemon Sharks are not big, per se, but they are still SHARKS.

I had an amazing time.

It sucks to be home.

I cried when I left. For two reasons: One, it was the first time I actually didn't want to go home from a vacation. Two, I was leaving Billy there.

It feels like I was gone for a month, but at the same time, it feels like I was only gone for a few days.

I'm already thinking about how I can work "When I was Belize" into my future conversations.

I thanked Billy every day for taking me. But I feel that my words of thanks fell short of truly expressing my gratitude.

I miss Billy.

But, God, I had such an amazing time.

There will be much, much more about this trip (including pictures) in the very near future.

I'm Leaving, on a Jet Plane

This is my last post before I leave. By this time tomorrow, I'll be somewhere tropical. Me, my backpack, and my boyfriend. What was sold to me as a vacation with the promise of little activity has somehow morphed into "You can't wear sandals in the jungle, Laurie. You need to buy something that covers your whole foot." What? Jungle? Nobody said anything about traipsing about in the jungle. Waterfalls, yes. Jungles, no. But I've agreed to keep an open mind and do things I've never done before. Jungle included. No doubt that, by this time tomorrow, he'll be on the fast track to convincing me to dive/explore/speelunk. I've taken money out of my savings account and traded it in for oh-so-dorky Traveler's Cheques (although I'm pretty sure that I'd be better off bringing bananas and coconuts for currency in the freakin' jungle.) and I've mentally laid out all that I'll be taking with me.

I really can't believe it. Less than twenty-four hours to go.

I actually did all of my shopping yesterday. I'm completely, 100% ready for my trip...Save for a visit with my parents and a good pedicure. No, I didn't tan, and I didn't stop eating. And, yes, I did buy shoes.

But I'm stubborn, see. So I didn't buy the sports sandals as instructed. Because, believe me, I tried. I really, really tried to just shove all of my feelings of hatred for the footwear aside and suck it up and buy a pair, even if it meant I'd just wear them while I was there and then LEAVE them in Belize. But I couldn't do it. No matter how hard I tried. And it's not vanity that kept me from purchasing Tevas or something of that nature. It's comfort. I'm not going to enjoy myself if I feel uncomfortable. And I'm sure sports sandals are very comfy shoes, literally speaking. But it's the figurative comfortable to which I'm referring. I just don't feel like those shoes are me. And any woman who loves shoes, who sees them as an extension of herself, totally understands that. If you feel like your feet are swathed in crap, you're just not going to be happy. No matter how beautiful your surroundings. Which is why I bought these Skechers. They don't look so cute in the only picture I could find of them, but trust me: They are. I actually like them. And they're pink, which is awesome. Billy has warned me that they're going to get all messed up and dirty, but I'm going to try to keep them sort of clean. I may actually wear these when I'm not in Belize. You know, in my house. Alone. Where no one can see me.

In order to keep my toes from suffocating, though, I thought it wise to purchase some flip flops. Because I don't own any. None without a stiletto heel anyway (Yes, I have stiletto-heeled thong sandals). So I bought some more Skechers. If you'll notice, they have a slight lift in the heel. Because I can't go completely flat. I think that years of wearing very high heels has done something irreversible to my feet. Like, I am now physically incapable of wearing flat shoes. I'll be honest, even tennis shoes (or "sneakers" as people out here call them...) hurt my feet after a while. My arch is very sensitive. These have a little arch support, and the thing between the toes, which in every other pair of flip-flops I tried on killed my feet, is a soft cottony fabric that I could forget is even there. But I'm not going to lie. I did buy a pair of high-wedged sandals, that are a natural beige tone, and sort of dressy. I thought it was a good compromise. A heel with a jeweled accent, but still in a raffia/ bamboo/ pseudo-natural color. They could be dressy or casual. Tricky, very tricky.

A hundred bucks later, and I think I'm good in the shoe department.

Next, I moved on to makeup. I've thought long and hard about my makeup situation. I really don't want to wear a full face of makeup when I'm going to be in the hot sun all day long. For a number of reasons, not the least of which being that it'll probably just melt right off of my face not five minutes after application. And I think I'm being generous in saying "five minutes." Plus, there's nothing more pathetic than a girl on the beach with a full face of makeup on, from foundation to eyeliner. Even I, Lover of Makeup and All Things Concealing, recognize this. And I do not want to be that woman. So I bought this happy compromise: Estee Lauder's tinted moisturizer/ sunblock. (As an aside, the stuff comes out of the bottle gray, but as you rub it in, takes on the tone of your skin. Crazy.) It gives me the tint I need to not feel self-concious (it's not that I have horrible skin, it's just that I'm used to my face with makeup), the sun protection my pale skin requires, and is really two products in one, hence lightening my load by at least one bottle. Genius. I'm wearing it today (it's a test run) and I must say I'm impressed. It feels light, smells summery (of cucumbers and sunscreen), and looks natural. Makeup: Done.

The last necessity on my list was pants. Because, so far, I've only been planning on packing one pair of jeans and a handful of skirts. And I'm pretty sure I won't want to wear my jeans much, and I keep having this vision of me hacking my way through some Belizean jungle in a booty-skirt. Which is, in truth, kind of stupid looking. Fashionable, yes. Appropriate? Not so much. But I had more or less given up the search for a comfortable pair of capri pants (the closest thing to shorts I'll actually wear) due to ass issues. My behind is very round and very high. It is a sharp contrast to my smallish waist. Which makes for difficult purchase of pants. If they fit in the waist, they will most certainly not fit around my derriere. My ass, in this situation, looks not unlike a sausage. And this, my friends, is not a flattering look, no matter what country you're in. If, however, pants fit in the ass, chances are they will bunch and/or gap at the waist, threatening to fall off and any moment while simultaneously flashing my cute underpants for all to see. Not only is this an uncomfortable option, but it also borders on indecent. Which is why I was so happy to find these pants at, of all places, Old Navy. I've never shopped in there before, but as a last ditch effort, I gave it a shot last night. And I was thrilled. They fit really well. They're cheap. And they're convertible. They can be pants or capris. A backpacker's dream! (Who the hell am I?)

So, now, I'm ready. Except for the actual packing portion of my preparation, I'm done. I have all of my bug spray, my sunscreen, my cream for the bug bites I'm sure to get despite the bug spray. Hair stuff, notebook, books. I'm ready.

See you in ten days!

Jitters

I'm nervous about our trip. About the packing and the sleeping arrangements and the activities he has planned...I'm nervous about the diving and the walking and the complete antithesis of anything I've ever done. But I want to try it. I want to keep an open mind. In fact, I can't wait. I want to do it.

What I'm nervous about, I think, is the week after my vacation. Where I'll come back on a flight all alone, with my boyfriend still running around Belize, and I'm back in Milford. Where I'll pack up all of my belongings in the house that I barely got to know and start the slow and sure process of weeding out the things I don't need, the things that go into storage at Mom & Dad's, and the things I'll be moving into Billy's. And, before I know it, I won't have a place to call my own anymore. Billy's home will be mine. I'll no longer have that little reassurance in the back of my mind: If things don't work out, at least I have my house to go back to. All of my clothes will be there. My lotions and perfumes. My makeup. My jewelry. Everything. That makes simultaneously thrilled and anxious.

Because, what do I do with all of my history? What do I do with all of the pictures that have accumulated over the years, that have all made their way into that one big bag of photos that has taken up residence in the top shelf of every closet I've ever had the pleasure of filling? Do I bring it with me? Do I leave it with my parents?

What do I do with my journals? What do I do with the mementos? The love letters and the little gifts and the notes and the thank you cards and the birthday cards that were given to me by one person or another throughout my life? I can't throw them out. I just can't. They've traveled with me through each move, and I can't bring myself to let them go. But is there room for them in Billy's house?

I think maybe what I'm wrestling with is the permanence of what we're doing. Should I look at it as a temporary pit stop on my way to another place of my own? Or does his home really become MY home, too? Because, if it were my house too, I could bring all of my memories with me and not feel guilty. I live there, right? So my memories come along. Or, do I box them up and write "The Past" in thick black sharpie on the outside and put them in my parents' attic, where they'll stay until my parents decide to clean out the house? Because, it's really not MY house, and perhaps I owe him a fresh start. Just me. Not my memories. Not my old photographs. Me, now, starting something with him.

Because he can shift and shake and make room for my shoes and my accessories and my millions of CDs. He can sort out and set aside space for my shirts and skirts and underthings. But, if I were him, I wouldn't be so quick to give someone a space for their past. "Here you go, Laurie. You can hang your shirts here, there's a place for your skirts, and your baggage? It goes right here."

I just don't know. I've never done this before. I never even thought about it. I thought that the day I moved in with a boy would be the result of a joint purchase of real estate. A deed with our names on it, the ability to decorate it...Not moving what's mine into a place that's already his.

I know I think too much. I know I overanalyze. I know he wants me there. I know this is a big step in just the right direction. But, still, I wonder.

Much like the vacation I'll be taking in a few short days, this is all new to me. And I'm trying to keep an open mind and just go with the flow. I wanted it, and I want to do it. I can't wait. But, still, I'm nervous.

Countdown to Belize

Since the day Billy told me our flights were booked, I've been crossing the days off of my little office calendar. In fact, my favorite thing to do every morning is to take my hot pink Sharpie and X off the preceding day. It makes my proximity to vacation more tangible. I can see my progress.

Again, with my crappy cameraphone, I've captured my progress for you. Note the excitement with which I've indicated where I'll be on the 27th, lest I forget. The teal announcement of "BELIZE!!," replete with stars of varying and bright colors, continues through May 6, at which point all of the celebration via Sharpie comes to an abrupt halt. It is on that day where I will leave my boyfriend in Belize, travel through customs and whatnot on my own, and land in Newark to greet my waiting parents. During that long and lonely week, I will be busy packing up my home and preparing to really, actually move in with Billy. A week after I land, I will drive back to Newark and pick up my well-tanned and well-traveled boyfriend.

But that all seems so far away. All except for our departure, for which, according to my calendar, I only have to suffer through three more workdays. It's getting kind of hard for me to focus on anything but that. Three days 'til we leave. Three days 'til we leave. Three days 'til we leave.

Ladies and gentlemen, the countdown is on in earnest. I have to pack my backpack in two days.

The Weight of Travel

As I mentioned here, Billy unveiled the backpack I'll be carrying on our trip to Belize. Call me crazy, but all this time I'd been picturing a Mary Poppins-esque Jansport. Small and cute, yet mysteriously able to carry two suitcases' worth of shoes and clothes and makeup.

I'd also been sort of fantasizing that, right around now, Billy would say "Haha! Fooled you! You get to take luggage! Two bags!" and we'd share a laugh, and I'd playfully slap him on the shoulder and ridicule him for scaring me into actually believing I'd only be able to carry a few items, and then we'd kiss and kiss and then, later, I'd start packing the first of my two very large suitcases. With lots of stuff that I don't really need.

However, this was not the case.

What he actually did was tell me to stand up and close my eyes. And then he left the room. From the room next door (a storage room/art studio) he commanded that I keep my eyes closed. "Still closed?" his voice, that was gradually getting closer, inquired.

Feeling like an idiot, I huffed out "YES!" Billy's big on the buildup, and it just drives me crazy. Which he knows. Which is, I think, why he does it.

He told me to turn around and put my arms out straight behind me. I knew he'd be putting the backpack on me, I could even hear it rustling in his excited hands. But I still sort of hoped for the surprise weight of a heavy suitcase in my outstretched hands.

Perhaps it is here that I should explain myself. I know how trite I sound when I talk about traveling with only a backpack. I know that I may even sound ungrateful or unwilling. This couldn't be further from the truth. I cannot wait to go with Billy. I cannot wait to experience something so far from what I've ever done in my entire life. But that's just it. I've never done anything like this. And I'm a little scared. I'm scared I won't do well at it. I'm scared I won't like it. I'm just scared because it's the unknown. I'm very much a creature of habit. And my habits when it came to vacationing, consistently involved packing too much makeup, too many clothes, and what everyone thought was way too many shoes, but were always all worn at least once. That's what I do. Wearing cute shoes and doing my makeup and dressing up makes me feel good. I like to do that on vacation. I like to go out to dinner. I like to go shopping. I like to sight see. But I like to wear cute shoes. I like to wear makeup. So that's is why I'm a little frightened. Because this isn't what I'm used to. At all. Not only am I traveling to Belize, I'm wandering out of my comfort zone.

So I stood there, arms out straight behind me and eyes closed, as instructed, and he put it on me. He slid the backpack over my arms and rested its padded straps on my shoulders. It felt huge on my body, cumbersome and not me. "Lemme look at you," he said, spinning me around. I hooked my fingers through my jean's belt loops, stuck my hip out, struck a pose. He laughed. I felt uncomfortable, awkward. I laughed, too. "I think," he said, while I stood there as he adjusted the straps around my body, like a first grader on my way to my first day at school, "that this may be the last time you come with me, huh?" He laughed and tugged me to him by the shoulder straps. He kissed me, still holding onto the front of the backpack.

"Maybe," I laughed back. I tilted my head back, touching the top of the backpack with the crown of my head. I felt shorter, for some reason. I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I moved them from my belt loops up to the shoulder straps, hooking my thumbs around them by my armpits, pushing the straps away from my body. Just like I did in high school.

I wasn't sure how long I was supposed to wear it for this particular fashion show. Billy kept circling me, checking me out in the gray backpack. He kept nodding in approval, tucking straps in here and there, saying "Uh-huh," and "Nice." So I stood around clumsily for a minute or two of his evaluation, feeling more than a little strange, then finally took it off. It slid down my arms in one smooth motion, and I swiveled it around onto the bed to take a look at it. Since, technically, I still hadn't seen the thing.

What had seemed like a scary behemoth on my back, now suddenly seemed so small. I opened the top flap and peered inside. "I'm supposed to fit all my stuff in there?" I said, pointing to the tiny cavern that would become the home to all of my earthly possessions for ten days in Central America.

"Yeeesss." He then began to unzip and unclip all sorts of compartments and hiding places within the bag, opening each one and displaying its vacancy triumphantly. "Look at this one! And this one here! And, oooh, here's another one!" I looked on, watching his obvious excitement unfold with every compartment. This is what he loves the most in this entire world. Traveling, carrying nothing more than he has to. Being unencumbered. His glee was contagious. I couldn't help but smile, watching him. "You know," he said, re-zipping a compartment, "this is the backpack my brother used when he met me in Greece. And it's the backpack my cousin used when we went to Australia." He handed me the now closed backpack. Passing a baton, of sorts.

"I feel honored," I said with a smile. I meant it. I did.

When he gave me the backpack, I felt the weight, the enormity of what it meant to him. I'm the first girlfriend he's ever taken with him. I'm stepping into a space previously occupied by only family members, people he was required by blood and law to love. People who will be in his life forever. And, me? He's not required to love me, he's just chosen to.

Billy's not one to talk much about the future, about the whys and hows of his loving me. He'll tell me he loves me, that I'm beautiful, that he's crazy about me, but he's not much into dissecting his feelings like I am. He doesn't want to rehash why he sought me out, what he liked about me before talking to me, why he was so hell-bent on getting my phone number, why he worked so hard to gain my trust from the very beginning. He just says "Do you know I love you?" And when I say yes, he says "So why all the questions?" He can't be mushy, he tells me. And that's fine. I can accept that. Everyone has their limits. So I look to The Dresser of Strength. His invitation to live with him. The fact that he stops and picks up ice cream for me some nights on his way home from work. But the one thing that supersedes all of that is this trip. His insistence that we spend ten days together, where we know no one but each other. Sharing something he loves so much with me. Wanting to be with me enough to take me with him the one time in the whole year that he actually gets to be alone. Wanting me.

That makes the backpack so much easier to carry.

Good Thing I Won't Know Anyone in Belize*

So, I think I may have found the "appropriate" shoe I was ordered to buy. It is pictured at left and, naturally, I'm leaning toward the pink. Although it doesn't say anything about this particular shoe that I've selected, the internet tells me that this shoe's sibling (looks the same, but is made by another company) is waterproof, which means, if I had to, I could go traipsing about in waterfalls. I know that the fact that they do not completely envelop my foot proves a tad challenging in the face of hiking and running, but a girl has to draw the line somewhere. I don't see a heel on those things, and I KNOW I see tread. So I think I have compromised plenty.

Luckily, the local huntin' fishin' hikin' store right around where I work (I work in the country, down the street from a both a very large lake and a smallish lake, and just in front of a lot of state land. There is much huntin' and fishin' and hikin' going on around where I work.) carries this type of, ahem, footwear, so I should be able to try one on and wear it home, if I felt so inclined. Which I doubt I will. But at least I won't have to worry about shipping time.

There's another version of this shoe that fastens snugly around the foot. With oh-so-lovely velcro. Although I know that was what Billy was referring to when he said I needed "sport sandals," and though I do not doubt the added comfort and security of this particular variety of "sport sandal," I must pass. I think the "full-grain leather uppers" on the thong I've chosen are thick enough to keep my foot in place if necessary. And if this exact version happens to not be waterproof, I don't mind. I'll wear in the water anyway. Because I'm crazy like that. (And also because I doubt I'll wear them that often when I'm not in Belize. Though, I must admit, those pink ones are quite cute.)

So that's it. Now all I have to do is find a few skirts, maybe a pair of capris, about nine more bathing suits and a way to fit all of my shit into a backpack, and I'm all set to go.




*Because the people I know here would see me wearing a sandal made by nature-loving company Columbia as the first sign of Armageddon. And we wouldn't want to scare them.

Some Things...

1. We leave for Belize in ONE WEEK! Less than a week, actually, since our flight is early Thursday morning. I can't wait. I'm thinking of the beach, of the warm air. Of an uninterrupted week with my amazing boyfriend. Did I mention I can't wait?

2. Things I've done in preparation for my trip:

• Permed my hair.
• Thought about the trip.

3. Things I haven't done yet, that I need to do in preparation for my trip:

• Gone tanning.
• Stopped eating.
• Gone shopping, successfully.
• Considered what I should and should not bring.
• Found "appropriate" shoes.
• Even considered finding "appropriate" shoes.
• Pedicure.
• Considered how little space I will have in my backpack.
• Even seen the backpack.
• Thought about packing the backpack.

4. I have, however, been going to the gym. And even though I didn't want to go last night, I went. I only had half an hour, so I decided to take half of the kickboxing class I normally take on Wednesday night. The problem? We had a substitute teacher. Who, apparently, has never heard of the word "rhythm." Nor has she encountered "flow." And, apparently, she wasn't very good at math. Because when she said we'd be doing "Four punches, four kicks," she decided to switch it up on us every time. Sometimes it was three punches and five kicks. Sometimes four and two. We didn't know. It was a mystery. She proceeded with no regard to the music, and then abruptly stopped one move to explain the next one. There was no following her. Which resulted in a classfull of women, jumping, kicking and punching haphazardly and randomly. It was hard to contain the laughter. The class started out with eight women in it. When I quit after my half hour, there were three remaining. I felt cheated out of a workout. So if I feel fat in Belize, I'm going to blame on that teacher.

5. As far as shopping for the trip, I decided I'd have to do it after work one day, by myself. Because I'm just one of those women who cannot shop with other people. Not at this point, anyway. The only trouble with that is, my car, Gwen, isn't exactly starting all the time, which proves difficult when I'm considering going to a mall with the intent to actually get home. I mean, she'll start, but she sort of click-clicks her way through a few revolutions before she gives in and starts. Which is just an abduction/rape/murder waiting to happen, really. Me, in my car, clicking away, in an empty mall parking lot. I'm thinking it's one of a few things: Starter (obvious solution), clutch, battery or bad gas. I don't know. And I have every intention to take her in to get fixed, it's just that I don't want to get slammed with a big repair bill before I go away. Maybe I'll put her in the infirmary while I'm gone. And I'll worry about the repair when I get home.

6. The perm has loosened up nicely. I'm actually quite happy with it. There are two windows of time, however, during my day that I hate it: As soon as I wake up, when it's frizzy and weird looking...And HUGE. And right after I wash it and put my $14 Curl Creme in it, when it just sort of lays on my head in tight little curls. But when it dries, it looks awesome. And, save for a few straight pieces in front (which I don't freakin' understand, but whatever), I'm really happy. I offer the accompanying picture as proof, with the condition that you disregard what would appear to be 80s bangs on my forehead. It just fell that way. My apologies. And, although this picture suggests otherwise, yes, I do have a neck.

7. It's so warm out now. I'm thrilled. It's actually spring. In celebration of this fact, I have begun to wear my favorite open-toed shoes. Every day I sport a new pair, which is nothing short of wonderful for me. My toes have felt claustrophobic from my winter boot selection. However, I went to a construction site yesterday (don't ask) in my high heeled sandals, and got all sorts of shit from the guys there that my shoes weren't OSHA approved. And I told them they could all suck it because it's spring and I'm wearing my high-heeled, inappropriate shoes, damnit. Even if I do have to traverse gravel, uncut lumber and rough tiling. Because I can.

8. I actually have a few things to do today, which is huge for me. I should go and, uh, do them.

9. I don't know how to end this post, so I'm going to do it....NOW!