The Hangover

Mobile HomeThe reality of selling everything I owned to spend a year in Europe was settling into my brain like a hangover – waking me in the middle of the night, making my heart beat like a drum, and leading a parade of incessant nagging thoughts – haunting me with the notion of spending a year wandering around in total confusion as my kids realized their father is a total idiot. It sickened me to think of coming home to nothing and living with my in laws, or in some broken down single-wide trailer in Mojave while watching remnants of my former life dissolve behind me.

I should have been stronger at the park and put my foot down instead of getting caught up in the moment, leading her to believe I was on really on board with this wild-assed notion. Clearly she misinterpreted my reaction, like an auctioneer misreading a subtle cough. Now I’ve bought something big and it doesn’t look like I can take it back.

The entire time, I’d hoped her proposal was simply an escape tactic to get our minds off our current troubles and after a few days it would die down.

But no, she got more enthused every day. Guide books started popping up around the house and annoying travel shows played constantly on the TV. She wanted to spend lots of time at the bookstore. She even dragged me down there one day. She disappeared, then I found her sitting on the floor in the travel section – crossed legged cradling a book – just the way I used to find her in college paging through books about kings and queens.

Yes, she was happy and hopeful again, but it didn’t seem right. It made me feel sad, as if she was in love with a new puppy and my job was to return it to the pound. It killed me to think of snatching it from her clutches, but I knew that little bundle of sweetness she was playing with could ruin us.

NEXT: A Schmuck With a Bag of Chips



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