Carrie gets invited on a romantic getaway – and promptly freaks out
“Why don’t we go away for a romantic weekend?” he asked.
“Could you repeat that please, stating the date and your full name?” I replied – setting up some A/V equipment to capture the moment.
He persisted, firing off a list of potential weekend activities – a bucolic inn, a dangerous car, Champagne for days. He said it would be an “adventure.”
Who was this man? And where was he in when I needed a date for my 1996 “Jurassic Paradise” prom?
As an independent woman, I know I’m not supposed to rely on guys for my happy fix. I usually find satisfaction through professional accomplishments. Or at the bottom of a wine bottle.
But this was different. This was a romantic weekend getaway. I was all aboard the giddy coaster.
Here’s the thing – and holla if you’re with me, ladies. Being invited on a romantic weekend getaway is like getting a People’s Choice Award. It’s not quite an Oscar, but you’re definitely throwing that hood ornament up on the mantle.
I had the urge to Tweet the news from the Facebook rooftops. “Boy. Me. Vacay!!” But I stopped myself. I wish I could say I had a sudden case of dignified discretion. But truth be told – I was superstitious. Breathing a word could risk my happy.
Because what if the mythical romantic weekend went away? Like an elusive unicorn or that bag of pita chips I opened this afternoon?
It’s not like I haven’t had amorous holidays before. It’s just that I’m usually the one scheming organizing them.
Which suits me just fine. I believe half the fun of traveling is in the planning. I bask in brochures, itineraries and travel insurance. I actually enjoy packing. I like dreaming up glamorous, weather-be-damned ensembles for each day. (See also: sleeveless sundress, Oslo, February, 2003.)
But now I was worried. I couldn’t stop thinking about the torrent of disasters sure to befall me as a result of this giddy-inducing invitation.
What if the inn lost our reservation?
What if the fast car ruined my easy, breezy, beautiful hair?
What if he got Scarlet Fever and canceled?
What if I let slip the fact that I frequently make life-altering decisions via my Magic “D8t” Ball? (Think Magic 8 Ball, but pink. And applicable only to dating queries. It was limited edition.)
What if we got stymied by a roadside game of “I Spy,” blamed each other for poor cluemanship and never spoke again?
The pressure was obviously getting to me.
So I did what any sane woman would in this situation: I asked my fictional lady friends for advice. I flipped through my worn “Bridget Jones” (old school, yes, but still golden) to find this gem:
“It is much more fun to go on holiday with somebody you are not having a relationship with because if you go on holiday with someone you are having a relationship with, particularly in the early stages, you spend the whole time worrying about how the relationship is going, instead of just enjoying being in a lovely place.”
Exactly! Bridget knows me almost as well as my Magic D8t Ball!
My romantic holiday could, quite possibly, perhaps definitely, go all wrong.
But maybe, just maybe, it would go all right.
I took a deep breath, a long drink of my pre-pre-pre-flight Champagne and decided – either way – I’d be just fine.
Do you have any advice as Carrie prepares for her romantic adventure? Check back each Friday to find out what happens next!