Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita): yellow submarine (1967)

Inscriptions and Marks
Signed: l.c. in black ink (ball point): Corita
inscription: Printed quote reads: MAKE LOVE NOT WAR / VIETNAM / What has it done to the home of the brave? AND OUR FRIENDS ARE ALL ABOARD MANY MORE THAN LIVE NEXT DOOR Lennon McCartney
-Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Margaret Fisher Fund
-© Courtesy of the Corita Art Center, Immaculate Heart Community, Los Angeles / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

"Vacation is the final stage of denial."

Anyone who has attempted to commit a long-term relationship can attest to an occasional communication problem made more difficult by the anesthesia relationships induce. After a decade or two, even the more self-aware seem likely to persuade themselves that they understand what they could never understand. Long proximity bestows no immunity against misunderstanding. It might even render those infrequent occurrences just that much more insidious. The watchman dozes. One might even convince oneself that one can disclose anything without fear of offending, that one's partner represents a bottomless well of understanding. This could never have been the case, though, for regardless of the length or depth of a relationship, the partners remain different people and prone to the occasional bout of serious MsCommunication.

I was never one to subscribe to the notion that women are from Venus and men hail from Mars, though I suspect that gender might engender different perspectives. Nobody gets to predetermine their incoming sensory impressions. They come unbidden, though we each develop ways to condition them for further processing. These approaches inevitably involve certain shortcuts and personal means of making meaning and assessing significance. These mechanisms tend to be so subtle that they often escape even their deployer's awareness. They slip into the background scenery. Some rarely get invoked and remain capable of surprising even their invoker, who might not have developed any awareness of their occasional presence.

I've long contended that vacations serve as a sort of punishment for me. Rather than warmly anticipate them, I find ample reason to dread them instead. I noticed in a story I wrote seven summers ago, the line insisting, "Denial is the first stage of vacation." I try to put up a strong defense, identifying reasons to justify my not going. This dance confuses The Muse, who more warmly anticipates new experiences than this old homebody ever has. Once engaged, once we're on the road, I tend to slip into character again. Until then, I'm so filled with dread that The Muse gets fed up with my attitude. Less-than-generous interpretations further fuel MsCommunication.

Neither of us is ever fully aware of whatever the other concludes about our behavior, thank heavens. I'm paranoid when in denial. The Muse gets unusually insistent, as if she could convince me with an act of her considerable will. I feel put upon. She might feel ignored. I must seem an unfeeling lout then, and maybe I am, for I am usually feeling overwhelmed just trying to stay ahead of processing my own demons. I must seem especially uncaring and uncharacteristically cold, but only because I'm overwhelmed. I'm apt to resolve my churning internal dilemma by insisting that I cannot go. My responsibilities at home require my presence. It would be irresponsible for me to go galavanting off somewhere in the middle of a crisis. The Muse might not translate my message as I intended, for she never had access to the turmoil churning within my heartfelt denial.

The world turns cold and uninhabitable. After investing decades in the relationship, the best we can manage might be a temporary strategic retreat. She replies that if I'm not going, she isn't going, either. Earlier this year, we were given the opportunity to visit Hawaii, one of the two states neither of us had ever visited. She jumped at the chance while I began my usual vacation denial dance. In that instance, I managed to persevere and stayed at home while she went happily galivanting halfway across the Pacific Ocean. She reported a good enough time, though she would have preferred me to accompany her there. All remained right with the world. This instance was different, and different in ways I could not have possibly anticipated from within my usual denial.

I was doing what I always do, gathering stories to justify staying home. What else could I do in the face of such a clear threat of vacation? My mastery of denial has denied me most of the sensibilities others might even mindlessly deploy. I can never accurately anticipate the effect disclosing my internal processing might inject. Maybe I really am from Mars. I suspect The Muse might vote for me to return there sometimes, especially when I blurt out what to her seems like an uncaring proposition. In our relative youth, we used to insist that merely speaking the unspeakable held the potential to fix most miscommunication. Not so with MsCommunication. Some unspeakables exist for good and decent reasons, and disclosing those might upset more than mere sensibilities or apple carts.

The world remains cold and relatively uninhabitable even after I figure out how I might, just this once, squeak away for a few days. As I begin to move into acceptance, I can see different possibilities than were available to me when I was still deeply embedded in my initial denial. Denial remains my first stage of vacation, if not necessarily the last. Before acceptance can kick in, I must engage in my curious dance. After denial and before acceptance, some anger might kick in as well as some difficult bargaining to concoct excuses capable of counterbalancing my otherwise all-powerful denial. Hurt feelings seem to come with this territory. It's a wonder I ever survive the preparing to actually get myself gone. Vacation is the final stage of denial.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz