Being a secret agent or CIA operative is definitely on my list of things I would love to do, but probably never will. (Along with running a marathon and doing a stand-up routine.) It’s the allure of having two separate, secret lives that are both filled with amazing people and experiences you can never divulge to either group. I would love to come home from a job of assassinating some underground operative, throw my jacket on the couch, and say “Work was fine. Nothing really exciting.” I do that now, but it’s painfully true. I’ve never lived a secret life. I’ve been that person who did all the “right” things like getting married, having kids, baking cookies, and getting a reasonable mortgage. I secretly don’t have any secrets. But last week…I had a secret life. It’s the kind of secret life I can’t tell you about because then it wouldn’t be a secret and you would probably look at me in horror the next time you saw me in the grocery store. It’s really THAT kind of secret life.
It begins, like most surprising adventures, with the completely mundane task of planning a trip. The hubs and I travel without our kids once a year and usually it’s an uneventful, albeit (mostly) relaxing, vacation to a warm destination. He plays pool volleyball with strangers, I read alone in the corner of the pool area, and then we eat a mediocre dinner together and end up watching TV in our room. We then argue about sex and eventually fall asleep around the same time other people are heading out to club. It’s basically like our regular life except in a warm climate and without children. It’s nice. But last week it was better than nice…it was fucking amazing.
We showed up at the adults only Mexican resort the hubs booked and had no clue what to expect minus the topless optional situation. We walked into a beautiful lobby, full of fully dressed models and I immediately decided that my top would stay on indefinitely. I have nursed kitten babies and my fat sacks weren’t that amazing before they had been suckled, so I’m already in the clan of saggy tatas. Moving on. We get to the room, change into our bathing suits, and meander to the pool area. Also known as ‘The Sexy Pool’. Now, you may wonder why we went to the sexy pool instead of the sport pool or the quiet pool and I will tell you…it wasn’t my idea. The quiet pool sounded like my jive. I had a book and I would travel…by myself, in the corner of the pool, for 5 days straight. But I married a social butterfly.
“Just one drink at the pool bar, then we check everything out, and you can go read.” the hubs coaxed. Just one drink, he says. Just one motherfucking drink on my way to debauchery.
Once at the pool bar, the hubs is like a prepubescent boy with a permanent chub for the vast array of naked tatas. I too, am checking out the titty committees, but for different reasons. I need to know if my boobies are the worst of the bunch, land somewhere in the middle, or if I should just grab that bottle of vodka on the bartender’s shelf and drown myself in the sport pool. As I’m doing the comparison, I glance over to the hubs who is now looking at me like I have suddenly morphed into a melted wax statue of Betty White. And then my bikini top is gone.
“Sweetie, we don’t wear tops here.” I whipped around to find a woman holding my green bikini top between her teeth. I calmly took it from her (with my hand, cause I’m classy like that), set it on the bar, and said to the hubs “Well, I guess that takes care of that situation.” Then I sucked in my mommy gut and tried to sit back far enough to make my boobies hover at least 6 feet away from my knees. Basically I sat back like I was relaxing in a Lazy Boy recliner. Not awkward or uncomfortable…AT ALL.
This is the part of the story where I wish I could tell you more, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy by the Mexican government. All I can say is that at one point during our 5 day vacation the hubs wanted to take pictures of me walking in from the ocean, the kind of sexy photos you might see in Maxim or Playboy. Unfortunately, I’m 3000 fantastic features away from being a model and when I looked at the photos all I saw was my cringy face and some baby monkeys swinging from my chest in a sad attempt to find armpit bananas.
“You look sexy.” the hubs told me later that day.
“I look like an 80-year-old prostitute fighting the waves for a meth fix.” But he wouldn’t hear of it. I like that about him.
That’s all you will ever know about this secret life trip. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a secret and you would ask lots of weird questions like “Why did you think that was acceptable behavior?” or “Do you have any close up shots of you doing that one thing?”. No one needs that. My advice…live a secret life and go to an adults only place in Mexico and let your freak flag fly. FLY IT VERY HIGH. Then text me so we can exchange secret photos.