Permission Slip
A note to myself before vacationing in Honolulu.
Go ahead and book that trip to Honolulu. One day you’ll wake up with a back feeling beaten in by a concrete truck, a chin that’s hired a stunt double, and knees bone on bone.
So splurge for a week. Tell Dave Ramsey to eat a log.
When your kids ask for three scoops of ice cream and oversized packets of taffy at the hotel lobby, hand them your credit card. Drink four double espressos before noon if you have to, or steal a big swig of the breakfast buffet mimosa while Chef Angelo isn’t looking.
Take an entire day at the waterpark. Smile like you mean it. Inhale curly fries if you can’t. It could be worse. You could be Joey Chestnut at Nathan’s Famous July 4th Hotdog Eating Competition on Coney Island, trying to break your own record of 83 dogs in ten minutes.
Ride every ride. Go down the Volcanic Wedgie twice, one time without crossing your legs.
On your way out to the parking lot, don’t rush the exit through the gift shop that is hell without the flames. Buy a Starbucks Mocha Doubleshot. When your kids hand the attendant four $20 silver starfish key rings and a giant bag of flaming hot Cheetos, look the other way, taking quick sips.
Turn the music up in the car. Play Miriam Makeba’s Pata Pata on repeat. Drive to the north shore. Pray for waves, but don’t expect any. Lose your way trying to find the secret beach only locals know about. When you get there, watch tourists with face netting kayak in the three-foot-deep bay. Walk your kids to the rock pools, pointing out the airstream on the cliff, explaining you only need 300 square feet when the Pacific Ocean is your front yard.
Before bed each night, don’t make anybody brush their teeth. Squeeze onto the sleeper couch and put on Sister Act. Fall asleep with the TV on, to the sound of the Isley Brothers singing “Shout.”
If you can manage only two things, they are: don’t check your email, and don’t pick up any calls from work.
It’s just a week. Then you can get back to that broken dishwasher.
