Business or pleasure

Down to business

I'd been preparing for weeks. Mentally putting red slashes through my imaginary calendar, counting down the hours until Europe! A vacation of sorts; a 10-day, work-related excursion that my husband assured me would be anything but relaxing.

Of course, I wouldn't be going.

But unlike him, I would be relaxed.

I'd be at home with the kids, doing what we always do when business calls him away.

Which includes all manner of things we usually avoid so as not to evoke his raised eye-brow, wrinkled nose expression:

Like cooking fish for dinner or eating bowls of sugary cereal, whatever cravings bubble up to the lazy river surface; watching movies that don't feature explosions every seven-and-a-half seconds, and absolving ourselves of all manner of detritus of which the man of the house can't part. 

While the cat's away, the mice will take the opportunity to clear out junk the packrat left behind and donate it to Goodwill Industries.

Why do we have six bunt cake pans anyway? The last time anyone in this family had seen a bunt cake was when we watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" on Netflix during one of the previous business trips.

Those pans, a salad spinner, six slotted spoons, two comforters, forty-one fleeces, four vests, twelve winter sweaters (the scratchy kind) and seven picture puzzles (all the pieces included (god willing), will no longer insulate the back of our shared closet. Instead, these useful (albeit out-of-season items) will start their long journey toward a color-coordinated debut on a resale shelf near you, in scented over-"flex"-ed kitchen trash bags.

As soon as I drop them off, I feel lighter and freer. I drive home with the satisfaction of knowing fewer things mean more room to breathe. Less clutter somehow means less anxiety.

My only regret is that I left the two cold-brew coffee contraptions to gather dust a little longer. Their departure this soon after arrival would likely be noticed.

And no manner of magical thinking or dramatic waving of hands could make anyone think my standard response – “It must be around here somewhere” – would be, in any way, believable.

It may not be perfect, but I can move on a long list of things I'd been putting off until no one was watching, eager to give their two-cents but not willing to put any real investment toward elbow grease: the lawn, the garden, the garage.

This week-long separation feels like more of a holiday than our actual vacations.

I can tell, he's feeling it, too.

His Instagram feed is beginning to fill with the sights and sounds of his work as he makes his way to England, moving stuff around … first by cargo plane and then by ferry. Time-lapse sightseeing for the onlooker. 

His voice has a calm that defies the many million milligrams of caffeine he's ingested to combat jet lag and get through the long hours of travel.

He's in his element, and I am in mine. We are both seeing little corners of the world and solving problems, some of which are of our own making.

In a week I will miss him almost as much as he will miss that salad spinner … or this broken colander.