This is Not My Beautiful House


Paradise Lost (*sigh*)

Reality check, aisle four. I look at the elderly cashier, who neglects to notice my hello. She’s too busy stepping from one foot to another, slowly rocking back and forth in her orthopedic sneakers. She begrugingly slugs the cans of diet root beer over the register and plops them right on top of the lightbulbs. I wince, hoping I won’t hear a crunch.

Gone are the days of visiting the model-caliber French market girls, who patiently listened to our requests and scoured le Supermarche for our coup-ongles, even though we’d helplessly asked her for “les nail clippers, s’il vous plait?” And here we are, thrust back into the life we so carelessly abandoned two weeks ago. The dishes should have magically disappeared before we get back, right?

It didn’t really hit me until we got to the Charlotte airport. As the militant customs officer gruffly ignored my mention that we were coming back from our honeymoon, snatched my immigration form, looked up at me and tore it into tiny little pieces, I shuddered, knowing that despite our half-hearted plans to run away and start a new life, there we were, back in the States. The big mean man nodded us through (though the husband assures me he was just doing his job) and let us pass through into two hours of a hellish rush to our gate. After waiting for our luggage, re-checking our luggage, enduring a bafflingly long line through the newest x-ray contraption, sprinting through a crowd of ignorant, mummy-life buffoons who were slowly wandering every which-way to their gates, we almost looked forward to our last hour-long flight to Buffalo and quiet hour-long drive back to Rochester before we could tumble into bed.

It was a wake up call, to say the least, but when midnight rolled around, we were finally home. And once we had gotten the house in order and picked up our squeaky clean pup from the vet’s the next day, we finally started to settle into the notion that we were home.

The weekend was spent watching way too much TV on our computer — we’d abandoned our beloved contraption in St. Barth — and catching up with old friends. We stayed up way too late, got up way too early, and then, sleep-deprived and wary of what returning to work might hold for us, we trudged forth, back to the white collar world. (I did take a break to walk at lunch though. Caution be damned! I’ve become accustomed to the European notion of taking time to breathe every once in awhile.)

When all is said and done, we had a hell of a time on that honeymoon of ours. We indulged and we lived and we loved every second of that exquisitely luxurious lifestyle. And we knew, in the end, we’d have to return to this goofy little city we call Rochester, to walk our way-too-furry husky, take trips to the way-too-ordinary grocery store, return to our way-too-familiar offices and to somehow fall more deeply, more truly and more contentedly in love. I’ve got to admit, it’s good to finally be back home.

This entry was published on June 18, 2012 at 9:14 pm. It’s filed under The Engagement and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

4 thoughts on “This is Not My Beautiful House

  1. B.C. Milligan on said:

    If you do not someday become a professional writer, you will be committing a crime against literarymanity!

    • Golly, you’re making me blush. Thanks so much! My writing is very much a work in progress and it’s something I’ll always aspire to improve upon. This blog has given me a great opportunity to learn how to write for myself, in my own voice (and for my wonderfully devoted readers too, of course.) Thanks for reading!

  2. Pingback: Bicycle Diaries: Looking into the Mind of a Genius, from the Bike Lane | Sauer Place (formerly bridefied)

  3. Pingback: This Must Be Sauer Place | This Must Be Sauer Place (formerly bridefied)

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