Flying the Friendly Skies

I'm heading off to Florida next week. This will be my first vacation...real vacation...in about a year and a half. That trip was to Key West with my then-boyfriend, affectionally known hereabouts as "that asshole." We were also supposed to go this past May. I held off buying tickets until February, just in case something happened and we couldn't go. As you may have noted from reading previous posts, something did happen: the Polish beer hall woman with three kids. I really enjoyed the fact that he met her in January, let me buy the tickets in February, dumped me in March, then had the audacity to complain to mutual friends that he was going to have to eat the cost of the ticket. Hence, "that asshole."

Our first trip together was, well, a trip. Neither of us had ever been to Florida. Nor had we been on any kind of vacation longer than a football weekend or a few days at the lake. It was obviously a test. If only I'd gotten the score mailed to me, like the SATs.

First off, he is not a planner. I, on the other hand, like to micromanage prior to arriving on site anywhere. I've tried to curtail this habit, since I have, on occasion, been sent to foreign countries for work having absolutely no idea where I'm going to end up, how to speak the language or even what kind of currency I'm going to be using. Working like that will drive you bananas, as Gwen Stefani so frequently notes. So you have to go with the flow. However, Florida isn't a foreign country. Hertz rents there. There are maps. I could work with all these factors.

He had nothing to do with any of it. Didn't know anything about Key West other than it was warm and there was alcohol readily available. Actually, the alcohol issue was probably paramount in his mind, since he always vetoed restaurants that didn't have liquor licenses. Didn't know how far things were. Didn't know how expensive things were. Didn't know where we were staying. Didn't care about any of it. Going was enough.

By the time we drove from Miami to Key West, during a gorgeous sunset, mind you, and got to the hotel I had arranged, I was in tears. We argued about where to park. We argued about how to get into the hotel. We argued over which key to use. We argued about who got to use the bathroom first. We argued about which way to turn to get to town from our hotel. We argued about whether or not I should be crying.

By the third day, he was suffering from sciatica. He insisted on wearing his horrid, nasty old Birks, rather than any of the other shoes he brought. The other shoes alleviated pain--why would he wear those? If he wore Birks, he wouldn't have to walk anywhere. He could just sit in the nearest bar, drinking mojitos and smoking Parliments. The cigarette of east coast gentry!

On the other hand, I was getting up at 5 a.m. and walking through town, waving at the homeless people, watching the city workers hose off the streets, talking to the cats and the chickens that scattered the sidewalks. I found the Dunkin' Donuts. I brought him coffee. I'd figure out what I wanted to do that day. Then I'd tell him and he'd resent it. We'd spend the morning not speaking, the afternoon by the pool, and the evening drinking. I'd fall asleep around 11 p.m. and he'd wander off in his Birks with his Parliments to do whatever tickled his fancy. And around, and around, and around.

I should've known, by the end of the trip, when we walked between four different gates in as many concourses at the Miami airport and the sciatica was knawing at him with a vengence, that we were not destined to be together. Especially since they don't allow Parliment smoking in the Miami airport, which correspondingly made him pissier and pissier. I resolved that, the next time, I'd inspect his footwear before we went. Luckily, it never came to that.

With the distance of time, I can see now that he was testing me and I wasn't reacting the way he wanted. He really wanted someone who didn't care as much has he didn't care. Unfortunately, I care. I care about getting up in the morning. I care about my clothes not smelling like cigarette smoke. I care about showing up for things on time and not hung over. I care about doing a good job and not looking like an ass. And I care about what people think of me. That, perhaps, was our ultimate difference. He probably thinks of it as a flaw.

But I don't.

So now I'm heading off to Florida with a friend who wakes up the same time I do, who waits until the sun is over the yardarm to crack open the first beer (except on Big Ten football Saturdays), who can read a book and not talk, who likes good movies and good wine and interesting people. And who doesn't smoke and wears appropriate footwear.

I can't wait.