It all began quite innocently. Or so I thought. My hubby, Jack, returned home from a very long overseas business trip. He was exhausted and a bit overwrought. “I’m quitting. This is enough traveling for me. I’ve had it.”
This couldn’t be happening. Visions of bills piling up filled my head. His moping around the kitchen hours on end. No way.
I quickly suggested a getaway. Fishing? A cruise? Take some days off and relax? My mind was racing for a solution.
“Africa,” he said. “I want to go to Africa.” Huh? Where was this coming from? Yes, I knew he enjoyed spending summers as a kid at his uncle’s farm. And he devoured animal books and could win the pants off anyone in trivia pursuit when it came to world geography. But, Africa?
This Bronx girl was hardly happy about going camping. However, I said “let’s make a deal”. If Jack would carefully research what entailed in going on an African safari and tuned me into his research, I’d consider his idea.
I figured in a few days or so, he would be rested and this would all blow over.
However, within a few months, our mailbox was teeming with slick brochures exclaiming the virtues of a safari in Botswana. The phone rang constantly from people all over the US extolling the excitement of camping in the bush. Jack had done his research. And by the end of the year, he had somehow managed to save without impinging on the family budget.
A deal was a deal. I now had to hold up my end of the bargain. And go. And go I did, but I went kicking and screaming.
Never realizing that my life would forever change with that one ‘deal’.