The Best Travel Problem and the Mystery of Aruba
Blame it on Mommy Brain
I’m here to tell you that mommy brain is a real thing. In addition to all the personal and relationship and work responsibilities you had prior to having children, now you also have to scan the floor for Legos that seem magnetically drawn to the bottom of your foot still recovering from a collision with a bike prematurely detached from its training wheels, referee a play date that has devolved into something akin to professional wrestling (Could I dress one of them up like Hulk Hogan and the other like Junkyard Dog and charge the public 20 bucks to see them go at each other in the basement gym of our apartment complex? No, you’re right, too far.), and stay composed when your kid emerges from “quiet time” looking like this…
…with the following explanation: “I accidentally forgot not to write on myself. Also, I used the permanent ones. And my penis is orange.”
Adulting is hard enough without these miniature terrorists draining your tank of fuel and then taunting you when your dial reaches red: “I hate you, I’m moving to California!” “Okay, but we have to be at the bus stop in half an hour.”
But let’s move on to the mystery of Aruba, which I am blaming partly on mommy brain and partly on the best possible travel problem.
The Mystery of Aruba
I was going back through my catalogue of old photos looking for some I could use for a lecture on Costa Rica when I stumbled across a folder labeled “Aruba.” Now if we were small talking and you asked me, “Prof. Cruise, have you ever been to Aruba?” I would answer, without hesitation: “No, but I hear it’s beautiful.” And if you asked me more sternly this time, I would still answer with a definitive, “no.” And if you threatened to inject me with a substance that would make chocolate toxic and lead to certain death if I ingested even the smallest amount unless I could prove to you that I’d been to Aruba, I’d beg through ugly sobs: “Please, no. I’ve never been there!”
So what explains the folder and these photos of me within it?
Determined to prove that I hadn’t been to Aruba, I scanned old cruise itineraries with satisfaction until I reached day 4 of a 12 day round trip sailing from Miami aboard the Norwegian Jewel that read: Thu 22-Dec 8:00am-7:00pm ORANJESTAD, ARUBA.
Well thank God, because I have 11 bags of 80% off Valentine’s chocolate stashed in my underwear drawer.
But how could I have forgotten this? Even looking at the photos hasn’t jogged my memory. I mean, it looks like we had fun.
We’ve already established that I suffer from stage 4 mommy brain, but that only partly explains it. Further investigation has revealed that I travel so much I’ve started forgetting places I’ve been. And this, dear students, is the best travel problem to have. I wish it upon all of you.
Now get out there are create memories in 2019 that will vanish into the travel-verse by 2022. Or if you’re a mom, into the mommy-verse three days after you return home.
Extra Credit: 50 points for anyone who can identify in the comments below which beach this is in Aruba and another 20 if you can tell me how the heck we got there.
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