To the one I love

We have finally returned from a week in Mexico. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I entered the airport last Friday in a cold sweat of worry and trepidation. We had not embarked on a vacation like this - one so purely decadent that catered solely to my love of lying on a flat surface with a cocktail in hand - since our honeymoon. While I have many advanced degrees in Being Quiet & Still for seemingly endless stretches of time, Marc is of the WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY THAT WILL TAKE MY HEART RATE HIGHER THAN WHAT IS RECOMMENDED BY THE HEALTH PROFESSION AT LARGE school of thought. And yes, he speaks in all caps. To say our definition of what qualifies as a "vacation" differs at best. And because of this, because of the hyperactivity and the need to MOVE AROUND ALL OF THE TIME, we have schlepped thirty pound packs up very high peaks, woken at dawn to climb things that we were perhaps just meant to be observed from sea level and hanged out over precipices that made me finally demand a life insurance policy.

To quiet the noise in Marc's head requires a dose of activity that the normal person would perish just to listen to. The noise in my head, however, is easily shut off with a margarita and a view of the sea. Marc, perhaps seeing some sort of desperation beginning to cloud my vision came home one day and announced that we were going to Mexico. To lie very, very still. I wept with joy. And so for the past week, my head has been blissfully peaceful. I have spent hours gazing out at the deep blue ocean and my troubles seemed to wash out with the tide. It was the healing balm I needed.

And Marc? My nerves about him being able to enjoy a vacation like this and not drive us into some sort of argument that would include my yelling "O MY GOD CAN'T YOU JUST ENJOY THE TROPICS LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING???" and him throwing himself off of the balcony? It would seem that having access to a gym, several Tecates at lunch, an afternoon nap and sufficient quiet time with his wife were enough to keep him from committing hara-kiri with a broken beer bottle. I was shocked! The man only naps when he is sick, or I am sick and he is faking the same symptoms. But the time together? I don't know that we have had anything like that in years.

Marriage is a funny thing. In the space of a day you can feel like bashing your spouses skull against a very sharp object and then make love to them that evening in a way that communicates that you will never, ever let them go, despite having wanted to induce threatening trauma to their heads earlier. Mexico, in its infinite beauty, in its slowness, its blue blue sea and rocky sand and beautiful stray dogs that I always had to stop and pet afforded me the peace of mind that allowed me to fall in love with my husband all over again. Not that I was out of it, mind you. I just had the space and time to appreciate all over again why we were HERE, here with one another, in the first place. And I reckon these re-births happen continually over the course of a life together, but this one is mine and is covered in sand and lime and beautiful sunsets and endless sleep and looking over at his smiling brown eyes and being flooded with that rush of knowledge that I did a good, an excellent thing, by saying yes to this version of my life so many years ago.

And so we come home and unpack and pet our dog who will ignore me for the first 24 hours because I dared leave her. And we will fall asleep in our own bed tonight and wake up tomorrow to schedules and bills and unanswered emails. And I'll go upstairs to fold the seemingly endless trail of laundry that follows me wherever I go and perhaps some sand will fall out of an undisturbed pocket or my collar will chafe against the sunburn I carry on my neck or Marc will look up at me, over his newspaper and I'll remember how deeply he slept every afternoon, waking with the imprints of the sheets creasing his face. And I'll be happy.

This life. It is more than enough.