Mrs. Chicken said I needed to relax.
She claimed I had become “too tightly wound,” which I found insulting because I have never been wound by anyone. I have always been this way naturally.
So she booked me a tropical getaway.
The brochure promised healing breezes, restorative sunlight, and authentic island music. I was mostly interested in the word authentic. In today’s world, authenticity is rarer than sugar in a neighbor’s kitchen.
When we arrived, a local gentleman seated beside me began playing a ukulele. He smiled the smile of a man who had made peace with weather, gravity, and tourists.
I, however, remained alert.
One does not simply “relax” in an unfamiliar chair under a woven roof while strangers play cheerful strings nearby. That is exactly how civilizations get overthrown.
Still, the breeze was pleasant.
The ocean moved like it had nowhere important to be. The sun settled on my shoulders with the confidence of management. Even my breathing became less suspicious.
The musician played softly and asked, “You on vacation?”
“I am under observation,” I told him.
He nodded as though that made perfect sense.
That is the mark of a wise man.
For the first time in weeks, I stopped thinking about unpaid bills, broken appliances, world events, cholesterol, and whether birds secretly resent me.
I simply sat.
No agenda. No mission. No statement to make.
Just sand, shade, and strings.
Then I remembered I had left Mrs. Chicken alone at the gift shop.
I stood immediately.
A husband knows when danger is near.
By the time I reached her, she had purchased seven shell necklaces, a wooden spoon, three soaps, a hat labeled ALOHA BABE, and a life-sized ceramic turtle with no practical use.
“Did you relax?” she asked.
“I did,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “Carry these.”
And just like that, therapy was over.