It Wasn’t Me
I just came back from a fabulous destination wedding/vacation in St. Lucia.
My husband and I think we are traveling when we drive from Connecticut to Rhode Island and stay in a bed-and-breakfast a WHOLE night.
So this was WAY out of our comfort zone.
And so worth it.
And as long as we were doing something so atypical for us, I decided that I didn’t have to be cautious, self-conscious me. I could be fun-loving, adventurous Not-Me.
I had a beer at 10:00 AM. That’s when the bar opened. So that’s when I had a beer. Drinking for me is one glass of red wine with dinner once a week. A morning beer? Definitely Not-Me. And there was a swim-up bar in the pool where you can sit in the water and have a fancy drink. And I did… what they called a BBC – Banana, Bailey’s, and Cream. Okay, so it was a banana milkshake with a miniscule amount of liquor. It was a drink. In the pool. In my bikini.
I rode a jet-ski. I am a complete vehicle chicken. No motorcycles, snowmobiles – not even a mo-ped. But when hubby saw the jet-skis and said, “I’d like to do that,” Not-Me said, “Sure!” And we raced through the water with me hanging on to him (and to the jet-ski with every muscle in my thighs). And I never (which means fewer than six times) said “Slow Down!”
And speaking of vehicles – I stood up in a moving one! The whole group went for an excursion in open-air land rovers. The guide said, “This isn’t America – you can stand up in a moving vehicle.” And so we did. And I did. Standing up holding the roll-bar while we skidded through hair-pin turns on the sides of cliffs. And Not-Me liked it! I smiled even!
(I will admit, I didn’t get off the vehicle when they stopped to let people play with the boa constrictor.)
This excursion took us to a botanical garden – perfect for regular old me. But we also went to a volcano, where they encourage you to strip down to your swimsuit and smear volcanic mud all over you for a full-body mask. My self-conscious hubby went on the tour instead. But Not-Me. Not-Me slathered myself in mud in front of all our friends. Who I hope are dear friends who didn’t take any photos.
I danced. I love to dance, so it is not so strange. But hubby doesn’t like to dance, so I often oblige by remaining seating and just bouncing in my chair wishing I were dancing. Not on this trip! Every night, I took to the dance floor (or rather, the dance-sand) by myself, with other women, with the bartender… anybody! And I danced my butt off. I danced until I felt my twice-broken metatarsal snap. Luckily, it was not thrice broken, just protesting. And let me tell you, popping your metatarsal is so much more fun when you do it freaking out to “Mony Mony” instead of cleaning the attic.
I cried at the wedding. Oh sure, you say, you always cry. (Yeah I do. So what?) Anyway, I misted up a bit during the incredibly romantic wedding ceremony. And then again when the bride danced with her father. And Hubby saw me leaking a bit and took my hand and whispered, “You’re missing your Dad.” And then the tears really flowed. All normal. Here’s the Not-Me part: I didn’t run off to fix my makeup. No Siree Bob – “Hot, Hot, Hot” started and I joined the conga line with mascara tracks on my cheeks.
One more day there and I’d have worn that boa constrictor.