“Did anyone invite us to their beach house for Labor Day?” my youngest daughter inquired casually, upon realizing that we were facing down a long 3 day weekend.

“Nope!”

“Someone’s lovely lake home, perhaps?”

“Afraid not”

“Mountain home?”

“Strike 3”

It was The Trifecta of Un–Invited. Anywhere. But it was ok, I assured her. We could go make our own fun. I suggested we make a hotel reservation in Kansas City, where we could honor laborers, all the while shopping and dining.

She was in.

And I was MORE than IN. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with hotels. I just love them. The plushy robes, the tiny shower gels, their adorable cousins – the miniature body lotions.

Naturally, I’m wild about ROOM SERVICE AND HOTEL HOUSEKEEPING.

I love hotels so much that I had Gracie and her friend do some quick calculations while we were there. I wanted to know how long I could live at The Raphael if I just sold my house and used the proceeds to pay the daily rate…

…12 years!!

But mostly what I love about hotels are the swimming pools.

I actually judge a hotel by it’s pool. When all the other adults make a reservation and look at the accommodations, location and thread counts, I’m scrolling through the picture galłery assessing the pool.

Which is a bit silly honestly, because I have a pool here at home. But, no matter. I crave variety in my swimming options.

One of my earliest memories was at a MOTEL. I’m not sure why they’re distinguished from hotels, but I think it’s because our Pontiac got to stay nearby, like a cherished family pet.

It was the 70s and my family was in Washington DC seeing the sights. I vaguely recollect monuments and impressive buildings, but like most kids, what I really remembered was the pool. It was the summer I learned how to jump off a diving board.

I stood at the edge of the board looking down – trying to quash my nerves. It had to be at least a 2 or 3 foot drop. But I screwed up my courage and took the flying leap.

It was all good except for the part where one’s little body sinks in the DEEP END. The part of the pool our mothers had always warned us to steer clear of.

You sink, sink, sink. And then the first chance you have, you kick yourself back up to break the surface. It seems like an eternity before you are reunited with air. And you can breathe.

I loved the entire sensation except the sinking. People talk a lot about life’s ups and downs. I find I’m more of an up person.  The down part really sucks.

So my little-girl-self came up with a solution. I would just jump to the side. Per my plan – as I jumped, I would lunge for the side of the pool. The concrete, if you will.

The next thing I remember, I was facing the bright light of the emergency room and getting stitches.

I still have the scar on my chin. It’s a bit of a reminder.

No matter how creative you are, you really can’t get around the downs. They’re a part of life. So we just cling to the belief that buoyancy will haul us back up.  Eventually.

We had a great time in K.C. It ended better than my D.C. weekend.

But – I never went for a swim because, as it turns out, The Raphael doesn’t even have a pool.  So we came back.

As proactive and creative as I thought my plan was, it probably wasn’t in my best interest to be homeless in 12 years anyway.