My Name is Frustration

Atch was urging me to take five days off from work. “Let's go on a long vacation,” he said, “let's take the boys and go to the beach.”

“But we just came from the beach,” I protested wearily, “and five days? That's too much!”

Atch was insistent. Atch was persuasive. Atch was a big spender, at least for the moment. He had filed a vacation leave from work for five days and asked me, nay...commanded me to do the same. “Let's go to this beach,” he said.

“But we went there when Woog was little, remember? We had car trouble, remember? The car died on the slope, and you swore never to go to that beach again. Besides, it's expensive.” That was me, ever the damp washcloth. Always the thundercloud over every bright summer's day.

“There's another road going up to that place. Why don't you research their rates over the Internet, then call them, and we'll talk about it tonight.” That was Atch, adamant and implacable. Never taking no for an answer. Not even from me. Especially not from me.

And so the dutiful wife filed a five-day leave, and hunched over her work like someone possessed, making sure no backlog took a chunk off her ass upon her return. The beach resort was called, the reservation made, and an accounting duly presented to the head of the household.

“There are lots of other things we can do instead,” I ventured hopefully, “I was thinking about scrubbing the bathroom and dusting the blinds. And you have to seal my leaky washtub and glue the straps of Woog's red slippers...” But he wrinkled his nose asked me whether I'd prefer the second floor hotel room or the ground floor one. “Whichever's the least expensive,” I sighed.

But it didn't take long to get into the mood of summer. I started packing away our sunscreen and beach wear, charged the camera's batteries, and modeled my bikinis in front of the boys, hoping to find one that didn't amplify the inappropriate bulk of my tummy and thighs. Woog volunteered to take pictures of the wings of excess flesh on my back, while Eli dragged everything out by their strings, baptizing them in his mouth, and pronouncing the damp scraps of fabric fit to wear.

Excitement's not an easy thing to come by, at my age, but the stirrings of anticipation swelled at my breast like waves upon the seashore, and I started looking forward to baking under the sun, lazing around with nothing urgent to do, having a Thai massage, and sipping a margarita at sunset. Maybe even get busy with the husband once the boys fell asleep.

I went to the office for my last day at work before the beach trip, buoyant, bubbly, and giggling at no one in particular. Until I opened my email. It was Personnel, no less. “You cannot take five straight days leave from work. You are only allowed three. Email back with the days you have chosen.”

Just like that. My bubble had burst.

But no matter. A three-day vacation is better than none. I updated Atch, and called the resort to change our reservation.

Only, a few hours later, the skies fell.

Rain, such as no rain we had ever seen in the middle of summer, grayed out the horizon and drenched every living thing for miles around. We Yahoo'd the weather and the forecast reported scattered thunderstorms until the following week.

Atch and I could barely look at each other, and Woog bemoaned our fate by giving voice to such a howling and whining that lasted a whole week. Atch and I pretended we didn't want to howl ourselves, and equally reassured and reprimanded Woog for adding to the damp. Eli didn't care. Water was water. He spent most of his time hanging around the downspout with his hands upstretched, and splashing on the puddles in the courtyard.

As for the bathroom, I did get to clean it. Scrubbed the toilet, as well. And dusted the blinds. And wiped the walls with disinfectant. And changed the sheets. And took the boys to a childrens' birthday party. And watched an Angelina Jolie movie marathon with Atch while we drowned our sorrows in rum. Played nookey. Had a massage. All three days worth.

“Maybe it was meant to be,” I told Atch, trying to look convincing. My poor alpha male looked deflated without all his belligerence. And I looked at the rain, and it pounded and pounded and pounded. And I wasn't able to convince myself at all.