What I Learned on my Summer Vacation

Everything was planned perfectly. My husband’s cousin would spend a few days with us and then fly our kids back to New York for a week with my mother-in-law and family. My husband and I would spend four nights in Napa celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary with romantic dinners, wine tasting and hikes through the Napa Valley forest. Upon our return, I would follow a rigorous schedule interspersing exercise with writing in which I would drop another jean size and complete a play I had been writing for two years.

Oh, the expectations I piled upon myself only led the inevitable: My back went out the night before we left. I was washing dishes (mistake #1) when my lower back began to spasm. I still had a lot of things to do, so I popped a pain pill and began packing my suitcase (mistake #2). Imagine how thrilled I was to open my suitcase the next day and discover that I had packed three pairs of underwear, two tops and five pairs of shoes, most of which I could not wear due to my back. I hid my pain from my husband as he suggested we cancel our trip. I was in need of a vacation, even if it rendered me an invalid.

Thanks to my husband’s driving, we arrived safely. As soon as we settled into our room, I talked him through a few chiropractic moves on my back that initiated immediate romantic dialogue.

“You’re crazy,” he said as I instructed him to push harder on my shoulder and leg at the same time.

“You did it,” I screamed as I heard my mid back pop. I took a big gulp of champagne the hotel had sent over and declared, “Let’s go taste some wine.”

For the occasion, I chose a new blousy top from H&M (mistake #3), a pair of black capris that didn’t match since my choices were limited, and my only pair of flat sandals.

Our first stop was a private tasting at Swanson’s Winery, owned by Clark Swanson, a member of the Swanson Frozen Foods family. While my husband and I were sampling delicious wine and caviar, Mr. Swanson entered the salon and introduced himself. I stood up to greet him as he delivered the dreaded question: “Are you expecting?” I pulled my blouse around my waist, sucked in my stomach and showed him that in fact there was no baby inside, only a layer of fat, saggy skin.

“I see that you are full like my wife,” he added making me feel even more magnificent and waif-like. I sat down in my chair and took a large gulp of an expensive Syrah as Mr. Swanson disappeared to the back office. Moments later, he returned with a bottle of 2005 Merlot yet to be released.

“My apologies, please,” he asked. I accepted, figuring that a rare bottle of wine was fair compensation for a pregnancy assumption.

After that, complete madness ensued. I spent a large portion of my vacation sitting by the pool comparing myself to other women. ‘She looks more pregnant that I do, I look more pregnant than she does.’ It was pure torture and a behavior I am ashamed to admit. I consoled myself with delicious wine and organic cuisine, vowing that upon my return home, I would rejoin Weight Watchers. Or perhaps, I would have another baby, I mused. If I look pregnant, why not be pregnant?

Fortunately, my madness ended as we returned home and I went to see my doctor about my back, stomachaches and recent weight gain. As I sat there complaining about my body, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Welcome to Middle Age.” He prescribed physical therapy, daily exercise and supplements. Nothing new or mind-blowing, I just never thought that it would apply to me.

So this summer, I learned I have a new job. In addition to being a mother, wife, writer, and filmmaker, I am also ‘middle aged,’ a job that has its own list of responsibilities, sacrifices and expenditures. Just thinking about it makes me realize I could really use a vacation.