If you’ve followed me on Instagram over the years, you know that pre-pandemic, I traveled quite a bit. Back and forth from Texas to Dublin, London, and Copenhagen I would go.
I’m sure it looked fun, I’m sure it looked fabulous, but it wasn’t, really. These were me trying to hold my marriage together trips, not fun, fabulous trips.
I’d bounce around rolling my carry-on, smile plastered on my face hoping for the best. These were not vacations. (But of course, there are a few amusing anecdotes I’m sure I’ll be pulling out in the future. Stay tuned…)
But, this summer, I, Sara Louise, was finally going on vacation — an actual holiday to a new destination. I was going to Maine, a state so perfectly poised for vacationing that their license plates have “Vacationland” stamped on them. (And let’s not forget the lobstah rolls.)
My Auntie Ilene, who you may recall, had invited me to her summer cottage on a bay in Maine. How perfectly charming does that sound?
You know what doesn’t sound perfectly charming, SHINGLES. Yes, shingles. I got Shingles right before I was due to leave. My body went into such shock at the thought of relaxation that it revolted with a stinging, burning, aching rash. But, with an OK from my doc and an “if you still feel up to it” from Auntie Ilene, I deposited Fifty at camp and hit the road north to Vacationland because if you’re going to suffer with Shingles, you might as well do it while sitting on the dock of the bay.
Meanwhile, at camp… Fifty caught Kennel Cough. KENNEL COUGH!
I caught Shingles; he caught Kennel Cough. And there you have it. No more vacations for us. The end.
P.S. Fifty is on the mend and getting stronger every day. Thank you for your positive thoughts and messages of support they meant the world to Fifty and me.