Wondai. The Wrap Up.
Derek golfed some more. He brought me a picture of some of his new buddies from the course. I think he saves on a golf cart when he goes with this mob. Actually, to be fair, he insists on walking every chance he gets. He doesn’t want a golf cart because he is not an old man, and is perfectly capable of walking with his clubs.
Same reason he won’t get a ride on mower for the almost acre of difficult yard he has to mow.
Ride-on’s are for seniors. Seniors annoy the crap out of Derek, they drive too slowly and they take forever in the grocery lines. I try to point out that WE are old people now but he insists WE aren’t like them. I am sure THEY insist that they aren’t like us either. To be fair, some of us may have truly forgotten our age anyway. I think we are basically just a bunch of 18-year-olds, trapped in bodies that no longer fully work, forgetting what we are doing here but able to remember how much better it was back when we were “their” age.
I spent some time wandering around the park, enjoying the horses and some alone time. I wrote. I cooked. I began to feel quite at home in our little space. I especially like that it takes a nano second to clean it all up and that if your neighbours really annoy you, you can just move somewhere else. Also, the terrible twos and teen years are not the end of when your kids drive you crazy. There is a lot to be said for when they are adults too. There may be some real value to being able to keep on the run so that the kids never find us. I find we both sleep better. And, we have more money.
I actually did not want to go home.
Derek and I do differ on a couple of things. He is all over using the campsite showers and bathrooms if we stop in a park. I prefer to use the ones in the caravan. Please remember that I am Canadian. We are very polite and very private. We are more into pretending that none of us ever have to go to the bathroom, thus we call them “bathrooms.” Our bathrooms are disguised are luxurious spa/libraries … with fireplaces, and water features and well-padded furniture. Here you have a room with a toilet in it. You call it “the toilet.”
I also don’t get the whole hugging thing here. In Canada, we shake hands. We also wash our hands a lot so we can shake safely. I may hug family, I don’t hug complete strangers. Don’t you think that “huggers” should adhere to some kind of hugger etiquette or that they should, at least be policed in some way?
I find it awkward to stand around in a large group when a new person is introduced who happens to be a “hugger.” You know exactly what I am talking about. They show up, know no-one and presume it is alright to greet everyone with a hug.
First of all how do they know there aren’t committed huggers in the group who don’t adhere to open hugging? How do they know anyone is open to hugging and that they are not some tour group out for the day from the institution where they are all being treated for a high startle response to human contact? I mean someone could end up dead here.
And when you are the new person and clearly everyone hugs, how does it go? Do you hug the ones you know best first? The host? Family? The people you like most? And what about skipping over someone and coming back to them? Like, what is all that about? And how does one address a hugger who has clearly passed you over and comes back to you like they purposely left you for last? Does it mean something bad or something good that you might actually consider bad, but they think it is a good? And if you refuse the hug will you end up offending everyone . . . or again, dead?
Is neck nuzzling allowed in social hugs? A kiss on the cheek? French kissing? Like, where do you draw the freaking line??? I am a Canadian people. I NEED lines.
How much struggling is one allowed to do in an unwanted hug before it becomes a fist fight? Should one, instead, make every attempt to push away from the outstretched arms or are you supposed to surrender at some point to save embarrassment and again … perhaps a life? If the person falls, in the struggle . . . who should help them up? The most hugged, the first hugged, the unhugged, or the hugger?
Is it permissible to wear a sign that says “no hugging zone,” and what is the penalty for hugging the don’t-wanna-be-huggees?” Like, can you carry a concealed weapon and when can you use it to protect yourself from a hug?
Frankly I think people who hug are a tad thick. I mean if you can’t figure out that the person running away from you in the parking lot screaming “NO NO, don’t touch me,” does NOT want to be hugged … I mean come on. “No” means “No.” And after the first 3 blocks …. seriously … just stop!
I say, when you can’t get your people fix, you huggers out there, find a tree. They may have bark but they don’t bite and I am warning you, I will, if you try to hug me one more time. . . . . or worse than a bite . . . Like as in dead . . .
I am a Canadian. We consider hugging to be foreplay.
Add a kiss on the cheek and we are talking porn.
Derek hugs me all the time.
Derek is a happy man.
But still, we have the whole man planet/woman planet thing to bridge and the fact he was raised incredibly poor – in ways that sometimes make me cry, while my grandparents were very wealthy and we had maids. We have an age difference and a country/culture difference. His careers involve the military and government and I had never known or socialized with anyone who had served their country. I was raised with religion, he none.
All those differences can be really amusing. We laugh a lot. It is much better than fighting or crying about it all.
The days were wrapping up. I wonder if centuries from now they will find this writing and “the days were wrapping up” will become a known scripture like ” the days were accomplished that she should be delivered . . .?”
If so, and they keep reading, they will probably worship this.
Derek was sent to the store to buy me a new water bottle. He came home, very proud, because he said he got me something special. He said he found a bottle that had a really nice fur cover on it so I wouldn’t have to wrap it in towel anymore. I expected white or pink, like the fur throws they have. Everything in our house it ballet pink, cream or white.
It wasn’t. My first instincts were to scream. I thought he had picked up some road kill on the way home as a joke, but then I noticed the pink bow. He was so proud. I told him it looked like some kind of decapitated dead animal that someone had decided to stuff. He told me that was sick and that no-one but me could come up with something like that.
So when he got back to the caravan after golf and found me lying on the bed, he came over to lean down and give me a kiss. He leaned down, put his hand down to steady himself, closer … and suddenly he jumped back in alarm. I followed his eyes. I pulled out the hot water bottle that I had wedged under my shoulder. He said, “I thought you had some kind of a dog in there with you.” My eyes narrowed as I looked at him, saying nothing.
“You know, with the fur and the warmth … ”
“That is really sick. You are probably the only person who could come up with that. Who would have a headless dog in bed with them? And then put a pink bow on it? A bodyless horse maybe, if you are a Godfather, but a headless dog?”
I suggested he sleep on the couch as he scared me. He pointed out we didn’t have a couch. I told him that was not my problem.
So that was our last night. You both have to sleep in the bed in a caravan because there isn’t a couch. And you have to share headless roadkill because when you get older everything hurts. And, you can’t just force the other person to shower with strangers but you can, and should, hug often.
Turns out “Fluffy” is a bit of a love bug . . . and we really like it that way.