Not exactly the island I meant I wanted to go to…..

I’ve been bugging my husband for a couple of years for tropical getaway.  The kind with cabana boys and private beach-front patios.  Zip-lining and a pool bar.  I think I’ve used every excuse….his birthday, my birthday….tax refunds…..our anniversary, my birthday again.  He really hasn’t budged.  Not that he wouldn’t go at all, he’d just rather do something else.  

So I can’t help but point out the irony that I’m here.  On an isolated island of “blah” and irritable sadness.  I feel like somewhere along the line, I ended up with a one way ticket to crap island and that there isn’t a boat rental joint in sight.

I know Mothers Day isn’t helping.  Two of the hardest weeks of the year (for me) are the week before and the week after Mothers Day.  The week before is listening to the commercials, seeing the jewelry sales in the mall and hearing all about everyone’s plans to honor the women who are Mothers in their lives.  The week after…well, it’s basically the same.

Not only am I not a Mother, but I also happen to have a Mother who, years ago I thought was a strong, independent lady who could always be counted on but who now enjoys a little too much wine with her wine, is pretty much an absent Granny to my nephew and though I truly love her – she is my Mom for Christs’ sake – she really can’t be counted on for much of anything.

Picture me in the over-priced greeting card isle at Target trying to not loose my cool while choosing Mothers Day cards for all the women in my life who get to be Moms….and for that lady who brought me into this world but can’t remember where I currently live.  Picture me fighting the tears and gulping down crazy laughter (the creepy/psycho sounding kind) as I read the cards and think to myself how none of these say what I need them to say…..and so I’ll have to go back.  Seeing as how I barely made it out of the store this time without a super security dude run in (crazy lady lost her mind again on isle 12!)

And so I’m back on my island.  Hiding out under my palm leaves of self-pity. 

Who cares about tropical getaways anyway? I’m German/Irish with a history of early melanoma and an extra 20 pounds of fertility treatment drug weight. I’m never going to lay on the beach drinking Mai-Tai’s in a bikini.


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