The 40-Mile Mistake
(Un)spoken Word
Maybe it's just me, but the word "vacation" has mystical powers. Every time I say it — prior to taking one — it's like saying Beetlejuice three times.
Last week I took a pseudo vacation. I say "pseudo" because, while I was away from home and work, I was still at home and working.
I went home to the DMV to spend time with my mom while my sister was out of town for the week. As anyone in the sandwich generation knows, caring for an aging parent is work. Sometimes hard work. The pay isn't great, but the benefits are unmatched.
Prior to "the week that shall not be named" I had visions of lightening the heaviness of life by spending rejuvenating time with mom and other family, in between spurts of relaxed book reading and tv watching. And while most of that did happen, it wasn't as envisioned or without a bit of anxiety.
Reservations
The first day of PSV week was reserved for what I thought was going to be a quiet dinner — with my wife and my mom — to celebrate my 54th trip around the sun. After a five-hour drive that took almost eight, on four hours of sleep in the previous 48, I'd have been satisfied unwrapping a soft pillow and curling up in a dark room.
Seconds after walking into the restaurant bleary-eyed, exhausted and on edge, I perked up when I saw a table full of familiar faces waiting to join that quiet celebration. I'd been hoodwinked — once again — by my wife. This was the second time she'd clandestinely gathered my closest family members and I was none the wiser.
I don't know if that says more about her sneakiness or my inattentiveness.
Reading Is Fundamental
Everyone I'd planned to visit during this homecoming was present…except my dad. He was at a different restaurant — 40 miles away. In DMV traffic, that's so far away I could have turned 55 by the time he arrived.
My wife, not being familiar with the area, had initially planned to dine at the location where my dad was. After learning there was a closer location, she made reservations and shared the deets with the fam — including my dad.
He was the first to respond and the last to read.
Family Matters
As we sat at the table trying to figure out how my dad got things so wrong, we laughed at how we imagined him responding to his predicament. As I've mentioned before, it doesn't take much for my dad to have an epic meltdown. A 40-mile mishap definitely fits that bill.
About an hour after everyone else had arrived, pops walked into the restaurant wearing a fly suit and wry smile. I could tell he was frustrated by the ordeal he'd just experienced, and embarrassed by the inconvenience he felt he'd caused, but after seeing me — and the rest of the table — smiling back at him, it all melted away like ice cream on a hot August day.
I was the first to greet him with a hug, during which he said, "If it was anyone else, I would've just gone home."
Good Times
In that moment I realized none of the stuff either of us had been stressing over — in the days, weeks, minutes prior — mattered. The embarrassment of recovering from a 40-mile mistake while everyone waited, the cash-strapped client that walked away, the discovery call that went nowhere, the proposal that's been "under review" for two months, the prospect of resuming a months-long job search to make the numbers work again and the late-night staring sessions with the ceiling.
None of it mattered.
Over the next two plus hours, the table was louder than the worry.
The difference is his was gone.
Mine was just on pause.
Question of the Week
What got quiet the last time you were somewhere that mattered?
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