Just to let you know (I preface questionable news with that same statement for my husband) Hippy Hall is sometimes more like Hippy Hell. My husband is a workaholic and a fucking entrepeneur extraordinaire. Oh, and by the way I’m an idiot, bonafide and certified.
I love my husband, you know, more than air. I didn’t sign on for all of this. By chance, we found something that could make us a tremendous amount of money. Let me tell you about a couple of the other things that could have made us a tremendous amount of money but tragically did not. Really, just shoot me. The first endeavor we put countless hours in was rope grown, cultured mussels. It was a great idea, cutting edge. We trusted an academic, affiliated with Sea Grant, who really put it to us, then we met a lawyer who didn’t stick it to us quite as hard, although he did put sand in the Vaseline. There were several seafood related endeavors following, in between we invested in (someone should have shot me to abate the misery) the .com bubble. I think we broke even, if we lost anything it wasn’t much.
Here we are once again. Who do you think does all the grunt work for these tremendous money-making ventures; don’t be coy, you know who, POOR ME. (My husband is smart and engaging otherwise I wouldn’t have stayed this long.) I’m working on a trademark, incorporating myself and creating entities for the other family “partners” so we’ll all be protected from the greedy, evil, narcissistic stepdaughter-in-law. You couldn’t make it up… . Let’s tally; day job running into the night, new endeavors, family management, dog care, ad nauseam.
I miss sexual desire. That’s departed. We’re on a plateau. I don’t like it here. I don’t know why no one thought to tell me this would happen. When you love someone with all your heart, it causes immeasurable sadness to lose that part of your connection. From what I’ve been told, I’m not unique in the female hormone deficiency. Both of us feel lost. We spend a lot of time discussing getting old and what course of action will be appropriate.
A couple of weeks ago, he tricked me. I was alone, cleaning house on a Saturday morning, thinking about how much Mum would have loved it here, how Gram would have claimed I inherited her taste, and how Joe would have taken every opportunity to hang out in the warehouse laughing, swearing, drinking endless cups of coffee, and encouraging my husband to loftier heights of achievement. I cried. All of the people who would have enjoyed this the most are dead. My husband is a good egg. I told him what I’d been thinking and how it made me cry. You’d never know I’m 54 from all this carrying on. Later that evening we sat on the deck. We talked about the planet, kids and their lives, our “retirement” plans. He presented the best plan.
We’ll cash out in some way, buy ourselves a Bertram, and follow the ICW (intercoastal waterway) from here to NOLA. That’s right dawlin, Nawlins, Louisiana. If we’re still healthy, we’ll repeat the trip until we begin to fail, then we’ll stock up on booze and opioids and check out. It is such a good idea. I’m all for leaving on my own terms. To that end, I discovered that our iPhones have an app that allows for medical directions/directives in case of an unfortunate incident. I completed mine, referenced the advance directive, mentioned the guest list for my ICU visitors, covered all the bases.
My husband is a big, fat, LIAR. He told me that we won’t be able to afford the Bertram-ICW-Goodbye Voyage. He said he told me to cheer me up- really?! I envision a time in the not so distant future when people in our age group will be making elaborate plans for grand exits. We are an independent generation, we will be the deciders. I’m taking the ICW in a Bertram, especially if my husband is ill. We’re going out having fun. We won’t linger or loiter.