In which we seek answers

When we are little, we can't wait to grow up so other people will stop telling us what to do all the time, and we can do whatever we want. Then when we finally do grow up, and reach that point of maturity, we think: Finally! We can make our own decisions now. Just as soon as we consult our therapist. Or TV personalities. Or Google.

Because we don't really make decisions on our own. We rely on others for information, for answers, to tell us what to do.

Joe's answer to pretty much any perplexing life question, for instance, is to Google it. Admittedly this is very helpful for certain things, although it doesn't work for the really important questions, like "Where is the ketchup?" -- although if anyone could figure out a way to find things in the refrigerator by looking on Google, that person could name their price -- or "How mad will my wife be when she finds out I put the white underwear in the washer with the red towels?" Nevertheless it remains many people's first choice for Seeking and Obtaining Information.

My answer to life's perplexing questions is to get a book about it. Joe says I rely too much on expert opinion.

"I don't think Suze Orman would agree with you," I say.

He scoffs at the idea that anyone who has extensively researched an idea, spent years putting this idea into practice, labored over endless drafts of a manuscript to share this knowledge with others, endured a grueling editing and publishing process, become a world expert, etc., could possibly know anything about the topic. Whereas someone writing on a forum online, under the name "Who Wippy Dog," and who demonstrates the grammar skills of a sock, does.

Call me stubborn and old-fashioned, but still I persist in turning to books when I want to know something.

Which is why, as we were contemplating where to vacation this year, my first impulse was to get a travel book. A book that would tell us the absolute coolest places to take a vacation.

One book presented, it said, 100 best vacations to enrich your mind. This sounded very noble. I flipped through the pages, past the spa chapter (which could have been titled "Way Expensive Vacations You Will Never Be Able to Afford") and also past the section about making a difference in other people's lives, because, I admit, we are not so much looking to enrich our lives -- or anyone else's -- as just to have fun.

"Look," I said eagerly, showing a page to Joe. "We could go on an archaeological dig and look for actual artifacts!"

I have always secretly wanted to be an archaeologist, although it proved to be somewhat incompatible with my philosophy of never getting dirty on purpose. There's just something irresistible about poking around for clues to ancient life. Actually, I have had some minor experience with this. Cleaning out my parents' freezer, for example, although I could easily have resisted that experience.

So when I saw this opportunity for a vacation that's all about digging, I thought we are all set. But it is amazing how, after only 3 years (and 10 months, 2 days, 17 hours, 43 seconds) of marriage, you develop an uncanny ability to look at your spouse's face and tell, in a nanosecond, that whatever you have just suggested is the worst idea since ideas were invented. But there is always the chance that you have misread him or her, and so you ask for clarification.

"I'm getting a sense that you really don't want to go around digging in the dirt," I said.

In answer he flipped to another page in the travel book. "HERE we go. 'Weave rugs with tribal elders!' " he said. "That would be so cool!"

I snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure there's a lot of weaving going on in between smoking the peace pipe or whatever it is they smoke."

What is really needed is "separate but parallel vacations." Two opportunities in roughly the same geographical location, but where you get to do your thing, the other person does his or her thing, and everyone's happy. Perhaps, for instance, there is an archaeological site near where the smoking -- I mean, near wheren the rugs are being woven.

I'll have to look for a book on it.