By Heather Sadlemire
I walk up to the front desk, my hands trembling as I pull out the Michael Kors wallet my husband bought me on our anniversary. I mentally berate myself to keep it together. Settle down. Be cool.
“I know it’s last minute and I don’t have a reservation, but do you happen to have any rooms available for tonight?” I ask the clerk.
She smiles, oblivious to why I’m actually there. Or, at least, used to playing the part of the oblivious check-in clerk. What happens in the hotel isn’t any of her business. She’s just there for the paycheck. “We do still have a few rooms available, but unfortunately, they’re all king bed suites. Do you need two beds?”
“No,” I say, the giddiness fluttering inside me like butterflies. “One bed will work.”
A few strokes of the keyboard and a receipt shoots out of the printer. I lift the pen to give it my signature and pause for a moment to reflect on the price. Just over $100. $100 that could have been spent on my family.
Shame and guilt start to suppress the joy I felt just moments before. I push past that, knowing that I’ve already committed to this, and I can’t turn back now. I owe it to myself. I scribble a name barely recognizable as my own, grab the key card and make my way up to the third floor.
I open the door and scurry inside, quick to close and lock it behind me. I’m paranoid that I’ll see someone I know. We’ll make eye contact and I’ll feel their judgmental eyes burning into mine. But I am alone.
I place my small bag on the desk chair, marveling at both the cleanliness and the silence of the room. The bed is inviting and exactly what I had dreamt about so many times before – several undisturbed pillows with linens so crisply white that they most certainly must have been purchased that day.
I grab my phone out of my purse and dial the number I know by heart. The voice that answers is as familiar as my own. He’s surprised when I tell him where I am. “I’m alone,” I say. “And I want it hot. How soon can you be here?”
I start to relax as I wait for him. I take down my hair, kick off my shoes and slip into something a bit more comfortable. I remember the bottle of Pinot Grigio I hastily packed into my bag right before I kissed my husband and daughter goodbye. Of course I didn’t think to grab glasses, but I go into the bathroom and unwrap one of the plastic cups by the sink. The cove lighting on the ceiling draws my attention to the mosaic tile on the shower wall and over to the dual shower heads. I find myself daydreaming about what would happen in there tomorrow morning, but I’m brought back to reality with a knock at the door.
He was faster than he said he’d be, and I wasn’t prepared. I fumble through my purse to find the correct change, and then give him an extra $5, on account of his speed.
It was hot. I try to remember the last time I had it this hot, but I can’t. How old is my daughter? It’s been years.
As much as I want to relax, the mother in me is saying that I really shouldn’t do it on the bed. “Just do it standing up.”
Eat pizza on a white duvet? No way.
I plop on the ground, trying not to get any grease on my yoga pants as I try to balance the pizza on a napkin while scrolling the TV channels. Ooo, Pretty Woman is on! Those sales clerks may have made a big mistake – huge! – but you know what’s not a mistake?
Asking my husband if we could skip a traditional present for my birthday and, instead, book me a hotel room so I could eat dinner in peace and fall asleep in a freshly made bed while watching a chick flick I’ve seen hundreds of times. And after I leisurely awake in the morning, I’ll take a shower without anyone asking me for another waffle or if I know where their keys are or if they can watch just one more surprise egg Play-Doh video on YouTube.
Oh, God. It’s so good. Better than any fantasy.
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About the Author
Heather is a marketing director and NY native (of the Upstate variety) who has to cover the last few pages of a good book with her hands so that she doesn’t skim ahead and ruin the ending. In between scouring the clearance racks at Target and stalking Mindy Kaling’s Twitter feed, she performs Disney numbers for her daughter (a toddler who can’t object) and husband (who knew what he was getting into when he put a ring on it.) Follow her on Twitter.