The Princess, the Vacation, and the Two Alpacas

I've come to the conclusion that women don't need a vacation.

We need a vacation before the vacation.

Because by the time we've packed the suitcases, cleaned the house, stocked the dog food, booked the flights, packed for the grandchild, done the laundry, scheduled the waxing appointment, fixed our roots, filled our lashes, painted our nails, and remembered everyone else's responsibilities...

We're already exhausted.

Meanwhile, my partner has packed three shirts, a razor, a pair of swim trunks, and is wondering why I'm stressed.

Now before anyone gets upset, this isn't a man-bashing article.

My partner works hard.

Very hard.

In fact, one of the things I admire most about him is how seriously he takes providing and showing up for the people he loves.

The problem isn't that he's doing less.

The problem is that we're carrying different loads.

He's planning the vacation.

And by planning the vacation, I mean he's getting excited and telling me about every single fun thing we're going to do once I get there.

The zoo.

NASA.

Alligator parks.

Swimming.

Road trips.

Restaurants.

Sightseeing.

More alligators.

At this point, I think he's personally responsible for half the Louisiana tourism industry.

And don't get me wrong—I love that he's excited.

I love that he's putting thought into our time together.

I love that he's planning adventures for us.

The problem is that while he's busy planning all the fun things we're going to do when I arrive, I'm still trying to figure out how to get out of Alberta without forgetting a child, a passport, a suitcase, or sunblock.

So while he's talking about zoos and NASA, I'm wondering if I remembered to empty the fridge and whether the dogs have enough food to survive until my return.

Neither of us is wrong.

We're just standing in completely different parts of the same vacation.

.

I'm planning everything that has to happen before the vacation.

Neither is wrong.

They're just different.

And sometimes those differences can create frustration when we don't understand what the other person is carrying.

Sometimes I think the expectation placed on women feels like climbing the Himalayas while carrying two alpacas on your back.

We're expected to remember everything, organize everything, manage everyone, and somehow still smile while doing it.

The funny thing is, I don't think men intentionally ignore these things.

I genuinely think they're wired differently.

They're thinking about getting there.

We're thinking about everything that needs to happen before we get there.

The dogs have enough food.

The house is clean.

The fridge is emptied.

The laundry is done.

The bills are paid.

My grandson is packed.

I'm packed.

Work is caught up.

And somehow I need to remember the seventeen thousand other things that only seem to exist inside my brain.

One of the things I've been learning lately is that people don't automatically see what we're carrying.

Not our partners.

Not our friends.

Not our families.

Not because they don't care.

They simply aren't inside our heads.

I've spent a lot of years expecting people to somehow know what I needed.

To notice.

To anticipate.

To understand.

The reality is that most people aren't mind readers.

They're responding to the information they're getting.

Sometimes we're speaking completely different languages.

Maybe that's what relationships really are—two people who love each other trying to translate for one another.

Of course, because life enjoys a good plot twist, vacation preparation wasn't stressful enough on its own.

Let's talk about airline tickets.

Tell me I'm not the only person who does this.

You pick your dates.

You check the dates.

You check the names.

You check the dates again.

Then because you've been burned by life before, you check everything one more time.

Everything looks perfect.

You confidently click checkout.

Done.

Vacation booked.

Except it wasn't.

A few minutes later, I looked at my confirmation and nearly threw up.

Somehow, despite the fact that I was supposed to be leaving at the end of June, my tickets now showed me leaving in August.

August.

Not June.

Not even close.

Now before anyone asks, yes, I checked.

I checked once.

I checked twice.

I checked three times.

Everything was correct.

But somewhere between the endless upgrade offers, seat selections, travel protection pop-ups, and enough buttons to launch a spaceship, something changed.

Within minutes I was on the phone with the airline.

Panic mode activated.

The kind of panic where you can actually feel your soul leaving your body.

Unfortunately, panic mode does not come with discounts.

The tickets had to be changed.

The new tickets cost more.

Quite a bit more.

And just like that, my vacation budget took a hit before I'd even packed a suitcase.

Nothing says relaxation like airline-induced nausea.

Speaking of suitcases, let's talk about this week's photo.

Picture me standing at the airport check-in counter with two overstuffed suitcases, a purse sliding off my shoulder, a carry-on that suddenly weighs as much as a small elephant, and that look of pure panic women get when they realize they may have packed for every possible weather event known to mankind.

The airline employee is calmly asking questions.

I'm sweating.

People are waiting behind me.

One suitcase is overweight.

The other one is somehow underweight.

My passport has vanished into the black hole that is my handbag.

And I'm standing there wondering if it's too late to cancel the entire trip and just stay home with the dogs.

Honestly, that image pretty much sums up vacation preparation for me.

Because while everyone else is dreaming about beaches, cocktails, and relaxation, I'm trying to remember if I packed my charger, my medication, my grandson's things, my swimsuit, my backup swimsuit, and the backup charger for the charger.

Now let's talk about the real victims in all of this.

The dogs.

Surely I can't be the only dog owner who looks into those big brown eyes and feels overwhelming guilt about leaving.

The moment the suitcase comes out, they know.

I don't know how they know.

But they know.

They start following me from room to room.

Watching.

Waiting.

Judging.

Silently accusing me of betrayal.

The guilt got so bad this week that both dogs got steak dinners.

Not dog treats.

Not fancy canned food.

Steak.

Because apparently my love language is guilt-fed beef.

And despite eating like royalty, they still looked at me as if I'd personally ruined their lives.

Honestly, sometimes I think they're harder to leave than children.

At least children understand vacations.

Dogs just think:

"One minute everything was perfect and the next minute Mama disappeared."

I'm fairly certain if Remy could use Facebook, there would already be a post about how he's been abandoned and is currently accepting donations.

And finally, because the universe wasn't done testing me, let's remember one very important fact.

Women don't just prepare for vacations.

We prepare ourselves for vacations.

Hair appointments.

Lash appointments.

Nail appointments.

Wax appointments.

Trying on clothes.

Finding swimsuits.

Discovering that the outfit that fit perfectly three months ago has suddenly developed an attitude problem.

All while continuing to manage everything else.

So if you're wondering whether I managed to pull all of this off, stay tuned.

Next week I'll let you know if Declan and I arrived in Louisiana safe, organized, sparkly, and vacation-ready...

Or if my roots are showing, my nails are chipped, my lashes are hanging on for dear life, and I've got hair growing in places that definitely shouldn't be making an appearance on a beach vacation.

Either way, it'll make for a good story.

Before I go, I'm curious:

What's the one thing you always seem to forget, stress about, or obsessively double-check before a trip?

Love, laughter, and a little bit of chaos,

Fina

Veni, Vidi, Vici