Greetings! I missed you!
If you have never given yourself a vacation from Facebook and other various digital distractions, I highly recommend it.
I had many adventures during Lent. Well, okay, maybe that’s overstating it. Mostly, I had all of my normal adventures. You know, like laundry and dishes and cleaning and all that fun stuff.
However, I do have one noteworthy experience to share. I got to see how the other half lives.
Uncomfortably. That’s how they live.
My husband and I got to spend a weekend at a very exclusive resort (paid for by my husband’s employer–duh.) Now, in case you didn’t know this about me, exclusive resorts aren’t my usual hangout. Even in Hawaii, I managed to find a Best Western for $89 a night. The closest thing I’ve ever come to a “resort” are the resort state parks we have here in WV. And what that means is that the park has a lodge and a golf course. Really.
Anyway, I was excited at first, because obviously we would never have the opportunity to stay at a place like this on our own. Then my husband forwarded an email to me which germinated a seed of doubt.
It was a dress code.
Now, I appreciate appropriate dress. I think people’s body parts should be covered in a modest fashion with clean items that fit properly. I learned, however, that there is a whole universe of phrases like business casual, evening attire, business formal, evening business formal attire, business afternoon casual formal, and sort of dressy but still business professional.
So you see why I was worried.
The seed of doubt sprouted into full-blown panic when I read the following actual statement from the resort’s dress code: “Denim is welcome in the resort for horseback riding and other outdoor activities.” Subtlety is not lost on me, and I can read between those lines. In case you missed it, that means “no jeans allowed.”
What I was expected to wear during my daily ramblings was something called “resort casual.” I had no idea what that meant. I subsequently discovered that it means “really uncomfortable shoes.”
I wear jeans everywhere. I love jeans. Also, I love slip-on, scuffed, wide-toed shoes. My idea of looking “nice” is wearing darker jeans and a tee-shirt that doesn’t advertise an alcoholic beverage. I don’t own a pair of khakis or a belt. I think I may have a button down shirt hanging in the closet, but I have no idea if it even fits. Cotton is the primary fabric in most of my clothing.
So you can imagine how well I blended in with the resort casual crowd. I staggered around on my dress boots (usually reserved for funerals) praying that I could make it back to the room before my ankles gave out. The whole time I felt like I had a sign floating over my head that said, “This woman buys her underwear at Walmart.” In fact, I think that should be the name of my dress code: Walmart Casual. Pajama pants welcome.
For all of that, I did have a good time. Matt’s colleagues are nice people, and free wine is enough to make any time a good one in my book. But I was continually fascinated by the thought that there are people who live that fancy, resort casual life all the time. I could pick them out, walking along expertly in their heels and silk scarves and shawls (yes, apparently shawls are back. Who knew?) I even saw a woman in a fancy poncho. They are resort casual all the time. They must have really strong ankles.
The room was nice, although, between you and me, I think the big price tag had more to do with the location than the actual room itself. It did have a nice big closet, and we actually had turn-down service. (Apparently rich people have trouble getting the comforter and sheet folded down just so.) Everyone was super accommodating–I had my first ever bell-hop. There was even a fuzzy robe provided for lounging around the room. But I didn’t use it.
I lounged around in my jeans.