New hotel rooms are such a rush.
How silly that at my age and with my travel experience, I still feel like an excited toddler when I step off of a hotel elevator holding my key card. The potential, the opportunity, the vastness! And I suppose it’s also the eternal optimist in me. This is the room that will be different, I think. This is the one that will change my life. This is the one that is going to have all of the qualities I’m looking for in a room. Finally, I think, as I smile and wave my key card in front of the scanner, my search is over.
Then I walk through the threshold, and there lies the bed. The bureau. The nightstand, the bathroom, and the token one-cup Keurig machine. This is nothing special, I think, as I storm through the room. Just another basic room. I am disappointed once again, and vow to not get my hopes up in the future.
But I always do. For what are we pathetic human creatures without hope?
The three or four times I have been impressed by vacation accommodations was due to the exclusivity and four-star rating of the resort itself. It is necessary for these places to excel in the little details, and offer things like fluffy robes, welcome-baskets, fresh flowers, spa jets, hanging wicker swing chairs, and fresh fruit delivered with the morning paper. These are things that make a guest come back again.
(Coincidentally, when I arrived at this past week’s resort, there was a welcome basket waiting for me. I was dragging a little, so the cups of hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows and fresh tangerines were a god-send. I’ll never forget that).
The mention of the thrill I get from hotel rooms is simply a segue to something more complex. Or simplistic, take your choice. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to write this blog for months. To finally utilize the list I jotted down in my Moleskin notebook entitled, “Things I Do That Make Me Feel Like a Grown-up.”
Seriously.
Sometimes I find it difficult to believe that I am an adult, deserving of all of the rights and privileges that my adultness has earned. I mean, my parents were adults. I’m not mature like that, am I? I remember the day I made the list. I was waiting to meet my son for a drink after a golf round at the country club, and I sat there at that mahogany bar, ordered a gin-and-tonic as the bartender wrote down my membership number, and all I could think was, “I must look so cool.”
Of course I didn’t look “cool,” but immature people always think they look cool when they don’t.
Conversely, sometimes the adult perks are not actually perks, but heavy duties. The first teaching day I was ever left alone in a high school classroom with 25 17-year olds, I was 23 years old. I remember looking around and thinking, “Ok, who is in charge here?”
“You are, Mrs. Oves. You’re the adult.”
I am? Isn’t there someone more…adultier than me that can be in charge? Like, what do I do if something happens? What if someone is stung by a bee, or needs feminine protection, or won’t take his headphones off if I ask? You tell me they’re going to submit to my demands just because I’m the so-called “adult”?
Fine then. Please turn to page 45 and read it quietly. What do you mean, why? Because I am the adult sitting behind this big desk. I have the certification, and I am in charge. Isn’t it cool? Aren’t I cool?
Needless to say I was eaten alive by that class.
More “Things That Make Me Feel Like a Grown-up”:
Having a checkbook: I love going to business establishments and writing a check, then ripping it off the check register. A check is like saying, “Here is an IOU for the amount. While I don’t have the money with me right now, you have no choice but to trust me that there is money in this account.” A checkbook is such a power trip.
Having a license: When I’m asked to produce photo ID, I feel a twinge of superiority. “That’s right,” I think, as they look at my license, “I passed that bitch. With flying colors. Now I can operate any motor vehicle I want for the rest of my life. Suck on that.”
Getting a paycheck: Seeing my paycheck get direct deposited into my bank account is thrilling. I provide this service, and they’re so appreciative that they give me money for it. Amazing how that works. On a serious note, during my first teaching job, I honestly couldn’t believe I got paid for doing what I did, because I loved it so much. I always forgot to pick up my check on payday.
Being approved for a credit card: Them: “Congratulations, Mrs. Oves, you’ve been approved for our no-fee credit card!” Me: “Really? Wow. Thanks. May I ask why?”
Ordering room service: “May I help you, Mrs. Oves?” Yes, can you please bring a medium filet, some grilled asparagus, the crème brulee and a bottle of champagne to room 314, and get it up here as soon as possible. I don’t feel like walking down there, so I’ll be waiting here. Oh, and bring those cute little individual-sized Dickinson’s jellies for no reason so I can put them in my purse and take them home. “Yes, Mrs. Oves, right away.” Room service is like any woman’s fantasy camp.
Renting a car: Me: “Hey can I borrow a car?” Them: “Sure. Just stand behind that counter for 60-90 minutes while we process your request.” Me: “No problem.”
Taking fiber: Like pipe-cleaners for your innards. Miraculous.
Getting mail: Heaven only knows what will be waiting for me when I pick up my mail on Monday. When you are a widow, you never know what to expect. Maybe a letter from a law practice about your late husband’s estate,. Maybe a bill for a loan that he took out in 1990 that you were not privy to, or a reminder to pay his Coin of the Month Club lifetime membership annual dues. Once I received an announcement that stated, “Congratulations! The timeshare request your husband made in 2000 has been approved! You now owe us twenty years of accrued interest for unseen maintenance fees. Cough it up.”
Yay for adulthood.