I usually snort. Whatever, dude.
First, I don’t run. Ever. Jogging around the Wii resort island looking for Super Mario statues kicks my ass. Running across India when it’s 105 degrees, looking for a little yellow flag? Yeah, not so much.
Plus, we don’t travel well together. Actually, we travel extremely well together by car. But by plane? We did it once (okay, technically twice since we came home) and I’ll never do it again. People who know us wouldn’t recognize us in an airport, where we turn on each other in an incredibly vicious way. And the poor guy whose job it is to push the bleep button? He’d have Carpal Tunnel within five minutes of the cameras rolling. We might be the only Amazing Race viewers who actually believed Jonathon & Victoria (season 6) when they said they weren’t really like that at home and that they had a good marriage because, quite frankly, while traveling we’d make them look like mushy, smoochy newlyweds.
The only time we’ve ever flown together, we went to a swanky ski resort in Colorado for a family wedding, which meant flying into Denver. As an aside, I’m not sure how people from Colorado breathe, since there’s NO FREAKIN’ OXYGEN there. I was also five months pregnant with SK.
One thing airports like? Escalators. Sadly, I’m very, very afraid of escalators. I’m not sure how exactly they’re going to kill me, but I have no doubt they will. I stand at the top (or the bottom) and do my counting horse impression. Lifting my right foot, pawing at the air, trying to find the right moment to risk death. You’ve seen people do that at the top of an escalator before stepping on. That’s all I do, since I don’t actually step on. After about ten minutes of that, we had the following conversation:
Mr. S: Bleep bleep bleeping bleep bleep escalator. Let’s find a bleeping bleep bleeping bleep elevator.
Me: Bleep bleep you bleeping bleep bleep bleep.
We eventually found an elevator. Later, perhaps on the return trip, but I’m not sure, we came upon another escalator. His reaction?
Mr. S: Oh, bleep. Bleep bleep bleeping bleep.
I just stepped onto the damn thing. He was a little peeved, of course, since he was convinced my first brush with the escalator would cause us to miss a plane I don’t think had even pulled up to the gate yet and that I was just screwing with him the first time, but whatever.
What he didn’t understand was that I’d reached that state of marital bliss where I didn’t care if the escalator sucked me in by my hair and chewed me up like ground beef. I would rather be fatally mangled by a rogue escalator than spend one more minute with him.
Traveling by plane with the Staceys would be a little like going into Hell’s Kitchen and offering Chef Ramsay some Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Explosive, scary and it looks like somebody’s going down.
But he thinks we could do The Amazing Race?
I told him he’s welcome to try, but he has to find some other sucker to run it with him. (And, quite frankly, in 18 years I’ve seen my husband run…once? Have another cigar, dude.)
If you could be on any of the reality TV shows, which would you do?