We Go To Palm Springs, And Almost Act Like Grown-Ups

(No, wait. Nevermind. We totally don’t.)

Rand and his new bestie.

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Despite being thirty-cough-cough-hack, Rand and I live our lives like we are perpetually in our twenties. We stay up late, we sleep in, we make cookies at 10pm and watch cartoons while they bake, our home gradually smelling more and more like vanilla.

Actually, I don’t think people in their 20s even do that, do they? We’re like fifth graders who, through some hilarious oversight by the CPS, have been left to their own devices.

Even as we get squishier and older and grayer, we keep doing stuff like this, because we haven’t really gotten the message on adulthood. People have tried to deliver it, numerous times, but we either pretend we’re not home, or that we aren’t Rand and Geraldine. We’re pretty great at it, owing to all those years we had to escape Rand’s creditors.

Every now and then, though, we decided to do very adult-like things just to see how the majority of the world lives. For New Year’s, we went down to Palm Springs. For those of you who have never been, it’s a lovely and sunny place in California where gay men go to retire. There’s lots of furniture stores and interior design studios and nice restaurants, and other establishments that cater to the wealthy and (probably) childless.

In short, it’s a very grown-up place, and we went with our friends Sarah and Eric, and their son Jackson. Eric is a grown-up, and Sarah is very good at pretending to be one. Jackson is two.

Guess who Rand bonded with the most. Guess.

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I bet you saw that one coming, huh? I totally did. Sometimes it’s just nice to hang out with someone who understands you, even when you’re babbling. Someone who doesn’t get mad at you for being cranky right before naptime. Someone who doesn’t lose their patience when you run across the house in your underwear screaming at the top of your lungs when you should be going to bed.

That’s what I like about Rand, too.

This is a photo of a toddler wiping taco off my husband’s chin. MY UTERUS JUST EXPLODED.

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But even though we were in a grown-up setting, we found ourselves acting, for the most part, like kids. Which left poor Eric as the sole adult who had to watch over the four of us, patiently explaining why we shouldn’t eat cookies for breakfast.

Not that we listened.

One sample conversation, while we were trying to figure out what to do for dinner:

Eric: Well, I know one thing. We have plenty of dessert.

Rand: Dude … not cool.

Me: What are you even saying?

Sarah: BOOOooooOOOO! MORE DESSERT.

Perhaps I am giving us too little credit, though. I mean, it’s not like we’re excessively childish …

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Right?

So perhaps it wasn’t as much of a vacation for Eric, making sure our shoelaces were tied, and our sunscreen was on, and trying to get us to nap on time. But on our last night in Palm Springs I think we finally wore him down; he was drinking scotch and eating apple pie and demanding we all go swimming less than 20 minutes after eating. It was grand.

By then, though, we were all too tired to do any of that (that’s what happens when you have a margarita instead of a nap), so we went to bed at a reasonable hour. I think Eric may have been disappointed, but he didn’t show it. He just went to bed. No complaining. No screaming. Not even a hint of a temper tantrum.

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Sigh. We have so much to teach him.