Holly was so happy to see us—curled up in Alex’s suitcase, saying loud and clear— 

Next time, you take me.

She raced upstairs to greet us ready for her big adventure around the neighborhood.

This is how it starts.

Right before my reality show life begins.

We usually collect golf balls along the course—the girls tired of the game that first summer, but Alex and I keep it going for old-time’s sake.

But something else caught my eye.

Half of a cracked bird’s egg–white, speckled, broken, and empty.

I bent down to inspect it.

Instead, I found a story.

The soon-to-be empty nester…

staring at the unmistakable sign of an empty nest.

But don’t let that serene little scene fool you.

Life isn’t always so simple.

In fact, when I start spiraling—like R.E.M. singing “It’s the end of the world as we know it…”—and I most definitely don’t feel fine…

life plays a trick on me.

Welcome to my world:

Sad Stephanie wakes up to a reality show.

I don’t try to live the reality TV show.

It just… happens to me.

So here we go—because this is how it happens on island time—crank up 50 Cent.

And just like that, the episode has a title:

The Value of Your Life as an Empty Nester: 50 Cent.

Hop in a taxi van in Curaçao—carpooling with an older couple trying to make it back to their “Princess” cruise ship. (Conveniently docked right next to our hotel.)

I’m not entirely sure how this happened off of my last blog, Joy-Riding with Mom, but here we are.

One minute, we’re stuck in an island traffic jam.

The next?

We’re off-roading.

I’m talking dirt roads.

Rocks.

Craters.

And we’re flying—up a hill like a rollercoaster, the kind where you can’t see what’s coming on the other side.

50 Cent is on the stereo—but not loud enough.

So the driver turns up the volume.

Louder.

Now it’s pulsing in my ears so hard it somehow… makes sense.

In my head, I’m screaming:

Stop. No. Please.

But out loud?

I’m laughing.

Really laughing.

Like when you are completely, utterly not in control.

The driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror—

not the road, which feels like a choice I can’t live with—

and says,

“You like it. You want more.”

So the music gets louder.

Of course it does.

We hit the top of the hill—

and then—

down we go.

A steep drop. Curves that do nothing to help.

Were we airborne at one point?

Honestly… maybe.

We pull over on the side of the road, and the taxi driver says, “Wait here. I’m going to make a deal.”

A deal for what, exactly—we don’t know.

We just sit there, watching two taxi drivers haggle over us—

somewhere along the way,

our lives have been reduced to a negotiation.

Like we’re a pair of flip flops.

Worth about 50 cents, of course.

And then our driver comes back and says the other driver will take us back.

He hands us each his business card, which we conveniently leave behind.

We feel our feet again as we disembark.

And gear up for what awaits back at the hotel.

No hot water.

Now, on reality TV, people are forced to endure far bigger pressures.

But when it’s your last spring break with your high schooler, somehow the stakes for a picture-perfect vacation feel just as high.

Only this time, the bathroom mirror is there—like my own personal teleprompter—reminding me:

Island time, apparently.

No hurries.

Tell that to our taxi driver.

No worries.

Tell that to the hot water.

You are on island time.

Calls to the front desk confirm it:

“Yes, this is a hotel-wide issue… Is there anything else we can do to help you enjoy your stay?”

How about hot water. Now.

But here’s the twist—more chocolate and vanilla than tragedy:

somewhere between worrying about when (or if) the hot water would return…

I forgot to worry about becoming an empty nester.

Funny how a life that feels like a reality show at just the right moments does that.

It pulls me out of the spiral

and drops me into a funny moment that cracks me up.

A broken egg in the grass, pretending to be a golf ball.

I wouldn’t trade that empty egg— not even for 50 cents.

It’s precious.

Apparently, I’m not the only one watching this show.

We met a couple on the boat to Klein Curaçao.

When I mentioned I was a writer—because all these funny things happen to me—she might not have believed me.

Until we bumped into them again at the airport.

I started telling her these stories, and she said,

“You could write about that.”

And, without missing a beat, I said,

“No, I don’t write about things like that.”

Funny how that works.

When I don’t see it coming—

life cracks me up.

And instead of falling apart…

I crack open.

So this one’s for her—

even if the blue curaçao wasn’t my thing.

Dushi bon bini.