It’s been my first solo trip since 2018. Because it’s occurring on the weekend of Carol’s and my third wedding anniversary as well as Valentine’s Day, one might expect a fevered explanation regarding timing. But suffice it to say, this was all Carol’s idea, so the why’s and wherefore’s hardly seem to matter, even though they involve where I’ve planned to watch the Super Bowl.

   What’s been most interesting is not that the husband in this three-year marriage has been given a full pardon (or plenary indulgence, if you’re reading this as a Catholic) to view the Super Bowl out of town (and with my Philadelphia-born twins), but more about how the send off more resembled that of an eight-year-old boy traveling unchaperoned to Chicago.

 The look on Carol’s face as I explained my packing plan was a mix of discovering a red blouse had somehow gotten mixed in with her whites and a shocked realization of just how far under her station she had married.

   The first indication that travel has forever changed for me as an individual was when I announced that I planned to travel with only a day pack to avoid having to check my bag. “I only need a couple pairs of underwear, jeans and a shirt.” (I was planning to wear a second shirt under my first to save space in the pack.) The look on Carol’s face as I explained my packing plan was a mix of discovering a red blouse had somehow gotten mixed in with her whites and a shocked realization of just how far under her station she had married.

Carol’s philosophy of packing does have less to do with my incompetence (“but you can’t find anything the way you pack”) and more to do with efficiency. It’s almost as if she packs in the sequence that you dress, so there’s almost no flipping through the suitcase. It’s quite impressive, though her packing for my solo trip does nothing to maintain my self-sufficiency as I age.

   Anyway. I was immediately taken off packing detail. (And, yes, the rollerboard that was packed in place of my day pack did have to be checked.) The good news is that everything I was planning to leave behind turned out to be needed, as a result of strategic miscalculations of a smokehouse BBQ burger and my mouth.

   “Don’t dry the jeans or the turtleneck,” I was instructed by my travel minder. “They need to be hung up.” (They were also required to be washed in cold water – actually my guess top – and washed inside out – no idea why.) I acquitted myself well, however, and I will be returning home with a spiffy suitcase ready for our anniversary/Valentine’s Day getaway to Crystal Cove.

   It should strike the independent-minded among both female and male readers that something is awry in this relationship. I can assure you it is not. Carol conducts her advanced caretaking with a song in her heart and her lips, while I accept the doting with a deep and mindful appreciation of my good fortune, along with a genuine wish that I’m the one to go first in this relationship.

   I’m increasingly aware of a growing incapacity to take care of myself, as well as a corresponding and continuing urge to simply let Carol be Carol. I look at it this way: I’m becoming the son she’s never had.