It looks like Palm Springs. It smells like Palm Springs. Everything around you would lead you to believe that you're in Palm Springs.
Where you are, really, is smack in the middle of another wedding ploy, courtesy of your 2E's.
Remember when it was you who wore the pants in regards to sneakiness and secret getaways? That was your territory. You were so friggin' good. (The one at Six Flags? The one with the picnic at the coroner's office? Yes, you were truly awesome once.) But lately she's been pitching in in the "surprise" department -- which is heartwarming until you realize that it has nothing to do with you at all.
You just lost your sneakiness merit badge, groom. You are no longer the sneakier one in the relationship.
2E's throws me in our new SUV on Thursday afternoon after ordering me to pack an overnight bag with no clue as to where we're going or how I should dress. We drive 80 miles an hour down a road that I don't know, and I'm panicked. Where the hell are we going, I screamed, but no, nothing.
Then we're in a hotel and it's got a private patio with a remote-controlled fireplace, and we're ordering room service by the pool, which has free floaties. What the F?
We're having cocktails and going on bike rides and taking photographs and I'm thinking about chewing through my metaphorical arm to get through these handcuffs that bind my emotions.
And all the while, see, while I'm being pampered and inebriated and romanticized, we're doing work. We're drafting an hourly day-of schedule. We're creating to-do lists and planning vendor walk-throughs and sketching out response cards. We're getting things done -- and, worst of all, she's not the one instigating. All this ordering and throwing and chewing and emotional handcuffs has me in such disarray that I'm taking the reigns. I'm the instigator. I'm the mastermind.
What the heck is wrong with me? Who the heck does she think she is?? Where did my metaphorical arm go???