Message from an undisclosed location

“So, where are you taking me this weekend?” My husband asked.

“What?!?..when?…this weekend?!?” I frowned.

“Yes. How and where?” he replied, “The who is us.” he added helpfully.

“But…” I stammered as I tried desperately to remember what he was talking about. Had I really committed to a weekend away? For absolutely no reason?

“Ahh…where do you want to go?” I asked tentatively, stalling for time.

“An undisclosed location.” He replied firmly.

“Are we hiding from someone?”

“Everyone.” He replied.

“Not the kids!” I exclaimed.

He gave me a look.

“Well,” I replied skeptically “what would we do there?”

“I think you should find a place with a swimming pool.”

“What? It’s been several years since I’ve put on a bathing suit in public.”

“It should be close to a downtown area. Then we can walk to shopping.”

“We don’t ever shop. And it’s the middle of winter.”

“Do you want to check out some museums?” He inquired.

Boy, I thought, he really does want to get away. “But” I continued to argue. “I don’t want to go to any museums without a grandchild.”

“We could go out to eat.”

“Hmmm.” I mused.

“And…” he paused dramatically. “We could do nothing.”

“Nothing!” I exclaimed. “We can do nothing at home, for nothing!”

“And,” I continued “we can’t do nothing. I promised Tracy I’d help with invitations; I want to have Aunt Ellen over; and the house is a horrible mess.”

I warmed to my subject.

“We need to hang pictures on the dining room walls. We need to decide on blinds and order them. We need to buy another rug for the….well for some room or other. I need to figure out where to order food for the shower. I haven’t written anything for ages…I can’t possibly spend the weekend doing nothing!”

“Right.” He replied.

“We could go away.” He continued seductively. “We could spend the weekend playing on-line scrabble, and reading the Internet. You could bring your knitting. You might even find time to write an article…”

“And,” he added with slightly more emphasis. “you promised me! You broke our date day, and you promised me a weekend in return. ”

“No, I can’t, not this weekend.” I argued. “I have obligations. I’m a person who meets her obligations. I told Tracy I would help with invitations. I’ve been a bad mother, I’ve hardly helped at all with the wedding planning.” I wailed anxiously.

“Luv.” He added firmly. “What Tracy really wants is a mother who stays out of her way. She’s a big girl. And…you’ve done just fine at staying out of the way…”


“Not everything rests on your shoulders.”


“And, don’t you have an obligation to me? Don’t I count?”

“You’re not an obligation.” I stammered. “You’re…you’re…you. You’re the pleasure part of my life…”

Oh!…I thought about that. It occurred to me that, sometimes, my husband is right. Maybe only twice a day.

So that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. That’s why I’m presently at an undisclosed location, writing, sipping a beverage, and not planning anything more taxing than deciding where to go for supper.

After all, it’s an obligation. To my husband, and perhaps, to myself. And I’m a person who meets her obligations.

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