My darling husband and I took a much needed break this weekend. I feel like such a fool when I admit I need a break, considering I currently work *very* part-time at a nearly stress-free job, but alas, sometimes even the most stress-free life gets overwhelming. And besides, the break *was* much needed, and much deserved for the husband, whose job is endlessly demanding, not to mention irritating.
We didn't go far, didn't even get on a plane and only used about a tank of gas, but somehow our little break was so restful and relaxing. R&R indeed. (And for once R&R doesn't stand for RPL and REs!)
I enjoyed the schmancy breakfast that was delivered to our room in a picnic basket each morning (sometimes enjoying his as well - gotta keep up that IF weight somehow!). He slept in. We window-shopped, shop-shopped and had our hands exfoliated. (You should've seen the look on his face when he felt his post-scrub hands. Boys are really missing out when it comes to pampering products.) We hiked and had a picnic by a hidden lake. Granted it would've been nice if said lake wasn't filled with water moccassins, but still pretty darn picturesque. We had sex because we wanted to, not because my mucous said so. (That mucous can be a bossy little son-of-a...) I don't even think I rolled my eyes at him once during the trip, at least not without a playful butt-pinch to follow.
It was wonderful. It was needed. It was deserved. And yet for every receipt signed, every dollar that exchanged hands, I felt guilty. $400 in hotel fees could have helped pay for that HSG I've been meaning to get. $60 in handspun yarn that I found at an artisan shop? That could've been a vial of Menopur. Even the ice cream cones (and there were many) could've been replaced with needles and sharps containers.
This weekend might've bought us a few months of blissful marriage and yet I can't help but think of all it *didn't* buy. But damn. That ice cream was good.