In a trip dominated by left turns and prehistoric sized bugs, I rediscovered some of the reasons why I want to be Squishy's wifey. Not that I needed reminding.
I'd had a long, arduous week at work, and as Saturday swept by, the unignorable need to feel scorching white sand between my toes, and hear the crashing of waves became so overwhelming, I couldn't keep quiet about it any longer.
"Squishy! I want to go to the beach."
"O.....kay.... When?"
"When I get out of work."
".......Really?"
I pulled into the garage at 6:20 on Saturday evening to find my beloved hanging luscious red black-out curtains in our bedroom. Not only do they block out almost all the light streaming in through the windows, they also block out heat and noise. I sleep in a virtual cave, people. No wonder I can't drag my ass out of bed before 7:30am, anymore. It's fucking wonderful!
So, back to the tale.
Squishy had already acquiesced that we would go to the beach, so I started packing us a bag: a change of clothes, bathing suits, and towels.
There was some discussion about where to go: Tampa was briefly considered, but it's an eight hour drive from Atlanta, and that was too far. I didn't really want to go to Panama City because it's..... well, Panama City. Everyone goes to Panama City. It's like going to a State Fair; one look at the 'bathing suits' some people will stuff themselves into, and you don't feel so bad about yourself.
We finally decided on Mexico Beach, and planned to just get a room when we got down there. We'd had too tough a time finding a room that didn't gross me out, and had a big enough bed for us in Savannah to make a reservation online. Neither of us had ever been there, and it was only a short 6 hour drive. Squishy and I are great in a vehicle together. Actually, we're great together everywhere. Except showers- but that's not his fault. I can't stand taking a shower with anyone. One day, when I grow up, I hope to have a huge motherfucker of a shower like on Bath Crashers on DIY Network. Then maybe I'll let him get in with me.
A quick pit stop at Chipotle for dinner, and we headed southwest. Our GPS took us through Alabama, and every few miles it would tell us to turn left. I was sure we were traveling slowly southward with several squares in our wake. It seemed like there was something to laugh about constantly- like how it seemed like the bugs hitting our windshield every 15 seconds or so appeared to be leftovers from the Permian period. We yammered on about everything under the sun. I remember thinking, not for the first time, how I had truly never felt this way about anyone. That sounds so fucking cliche. I know it does, but there's no other way for me to put it.
So, six hours and a drive through an Air Force Base later, we came to Mexico Beach. I don't know what exactly I was expecting, but what I encountered was a retirement wasteland. It was 12am on a Saturday night and nothing was open. What's worse was there were no vacancies at any of the four hotels in town. In the moonlight, we could see that the 'beach' was just on the right hand side of the road with maybe 10 feet of sand before you hit ocean.
Well, fuck. Just, fuck! This isn't at all what I was fantasizing about. I wanted to lay on the beach next to this Roman God of a man driving the truck I was in. There were no waves. Barely any beach. And I'll be muppetfucked if I'm going to sleep in my damned truck!
We decided to drive on. There had to be somewhere on down the road with an available room. Right?!
So, through Port St. Joe, Apalachicola, and Eastpoint we drove, passing one No Vacancy sign after another. As we approached Carrabelle, the GPS told us there was another hotel up on our left. So, we pulled into the (full) parking lot, hopefully went inside, and asked the sleepy desk clerk for a room. To which he replied, "Oh, I'm sorry. We're full." Evidently there was some sort of fishing tournament going on that weekend, and in my haste to stick my feet in something other than red Georgia clay, I didn't think to check for things like that before choosing where to go.
I called two or three hotels in Panama City, only to find that they had no vacancies, either. No one needed to point out the irony that if we'd gone to Tampa, we'd already be there.
As we limped into Carrabelle, hoping like hell for an open gas station, I was so frustrated and embarrassed that I was pretty much ready to head home. I felt like an idiot for dragging Jamie down to Florida with no real plan, and at this point, nowhere to sleep that night.
I told him we should just drive the hour north to Tallahassee, get a cheap room, and head home when we woke up.
He just laughed, hugged me, and kissed my forehead. "Squishy, it's ok. I'm not mad. This is funny to me, and I'm having a blast just being with you. I don't care if we sleep on the side of the road in the bed of the truck. I just want to be with you."
I've spent so much of my life worrying whether or not my actions and decisions were going to piss my parents/sister/friends/boyfriend/husband off. I've walked on eggshells my whole life, and until Jamie, I didn't know how not to. The moment he turned his sparkling eyes on me and told me not to worry that night, the realization that I'm supposed to be with him came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks.
I tried to shake off the rest of my disappointment as we drove to Tallahassee, and he resumed our joking. We found a room at a Marriott close to Florida State which I spent way too much money on, considering that it was 4am, and checkout was noon the next day. But, hey. That was a good night, and a fucking comfortable bed.
The next morning, I woke up around 10am. The embarrassment and disappointment from the night before were gone and in it's place was a sort of contented awe. I remember reaching out under the covers towards him with my eyes closed, and when we touched, he hummed happily. I will never forget that sound- he makes it every morning when I touch him.
The decision was made to just keep swimming-just keep swimming! So back west, to Panama City Beach!
Driving across the panhandle of Florida over back roads and through one-horse towns really feels like you're in the middle of Nowhere. I even checked in on Facebook from there! Go look- on June 12th I checked myself and Jamie in at The Middle of Nowhere. They have Burger Kings.
When we finally found a beach, and some public parking, Squishy got to try out the four-wheel drive on the truck for the first time, and park on a patch of sand anyone else would be crazy to have attempted. But, that's my Squishy! He's badass.
Laying on our blanket in the sun, feeling the sun on my skin, and his body next to mine, I finally found what I'd been craving.
Once again, I paid too much for our hotel room. But, once again, it was well worth it. It was right on the beach, with a 24 hour pool, and every room faced the gulf.
Rather than have to worry about finding a parking spot for our gigantic truck every time we wanted to go out, we walked across the street to a scooter rental place and got a blue scooter for the rest of the weekend.
We had mudslides and terrible food- yet great service- at Margaritaville, some amazing fresh lemonade at a little candy shop on the strip, and breakfast at a greasy spoon I can't remember the name of. But, by far, the most fun we had was on that damned scooter. It only went up to about 40mph, but there's nothing funnier than zooming by pedestrians and making some god-awful noises at them just to see their reactions.
So, when I think of our impromtu trip to the beach this past summer, I don't think about how poorly I planned it out, or that it was almost a ridiculous, expensive disaster. I remember that we had the time of our lives, and that the scooter opened up the door for us to ride a motorcycle together.
I remember that a little over a month after our trip, he asked me to be his wife, and slipped the most beautiful ring on my hand. Now, we're Mr. & Mrs. Squishy.
No comments:
Post a Comment