I like to think my husband married me for my sense of adventure, my quick wit, and, of course, my dashing good looks. I’m always busy, always talking, always moving—while he’s the exact opposite, bless his patient heart.
When we had children, we made a pact: at least two family vacations every year. One long, 7–10 day trip somewhere exciting, and one short weekend getaway within six hours of home. It was my turn to pick the long weekend. Bless my heart.
After a bit of searching, I found a cute little Children’s Zoo about five hours away in Michigan. I’d never been to Michigan, and I was excited to explore. We loaded up the car, my husband indulged my enthusiasm, and off we went.
The zoo itself was adorable, the kids were thrilled—but that’s when the story takes its turn, at the hotel I had snagged a “great deal” on. Pulling up, we were met with an empty parking lot and a lobby where guests shuffled in and out from smoking. “Allison… this is a mistake,” my husband muttered.
“No way! It’s perfect! There’s a pool for the kids!” I said, smiling. He sighed, but again, followed my lead.
We checked in, got our room, and headed to the pool. Immediately, we started coughing. The walls had been freshly painted, but the room wasn’t ventilated. Problem one: our lungs were on fire. The kids were crushed—they love swimming. After telling the front desk, they tried to ventilate the room, and an hour later, we cautiously returned to the pool.
Problem two: the water was bathtub-warm, and big chunks of hair floated in the water. My husband’s “I told you so” look was almost comical. I tried to laugh it off: just a poorly kept pool, I said. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Back in the room, I thought we’d recovered. My husband jumped in the shower, adjusted the shower head, and it popped off—smacking him in the head and rolling under the sink. Problem three.
As I went to retrieve it, I noticed a rag wrapped around the pipes, dripping a strange, colored, scented liquid. Problem four. I didn’t even tell him, knowing his reaction would have been explosive. I made a mental note: keep kids’ feet off the bathroom floor and check out first thing in the morning.
And then, the pièce de résistance: my daughter dropped her pacifier under the bed. As I reached for it, I discovered a pair of dirty underwear. Problem five. I completely lost it. “We’re leaving in the morning,” I declared, laughing and crying at the absurdity.
I called my mom to share our Michigan misadventures. Not surprised in the slightest, she listened as I laughed until I cried. Even the poor front desk clerk, witnessing my meltdown, looked horrified. I recounted everything, and he offered to photograph the room and report it to his manager. Sure, I said—why not?
Twenty minutes later, he knocked again. “You have to leave. This room isn’t up to standard, and we have no other rooms. We’ll refund your money.” Empty parking lot, empty lobby, but rules are rules. I lost it again, laughing uncontrollably.
My husband shook his head. “Allison. Seriously. I told you this place was bad.”
“Yeah… I hear you. My bad,” I said, still giggling.
“YOU NEVER GET TO CHOOSE WHERE WE GO AGAIN.”
We drove two towns over to a proper Holiday Inn. He lectured me the whole way—knowing full well he would indulge me again next time. And I know he will, because this isn’t our first “adventure” gone wrong, and it certainly won’t be our last.
Despite all the chaos, we loved Michigan. We love each other. We love choosing experiences and memories over material things. And I married an amazing man—fearless, selfless, indulgent, and loving. A man who knows misadventures seem to find me, but never complains. A man who embraces adventure and laughs at life’s absurdities.
Find yourself a Jacob.
