I saw an ad for the Sybaris this morning, and it made me remember something in honor of Mother’s Day.
A long time ago, probably when I was in middle school maybe younger, my mom told me that she went with her boss to the Sybaris to look at rooms and decide whether or not she wanted to rent a room there. (Her boss wanted to rent the room with her husband, not with my mom, or my mom’s husband. That would’ve made this an entirely different kind of story. Also, this story is so ’80s, because what boss would even think about taking an employee to look at a sex room in these litigious times?)
I, a youngster who had spent a lot of time watching daytime cable television, had seen ads for and fantasized about staying at the Sybaris many times, because what child wouldn’t want to book a room there? There’s a frakking pool right inside your bedroom. That’s the dream! I thought maybe, possibly I might be able to have a birthday party there.
My mom told me that you have to be married to stay at the Sybaris, full stop. I took this at face value and as literally as possible. I pictured the front desk working checking marriage licenses on the way in. And that was the end of it.
Fast forward a lot of years later, and the Sybaris came up again in conversation, AS IT DOES. I, probably a college person at this point, definitely old enough to know better, said, “Oh, yeah. You have to be married to go there.”
Then a few beats.
Then a few more.
And I realized, that’s asinine. No one is checking marriage licenses at the Sybaris. The Sybaris doesn’t care if you’re married or not. The Sybaris doesn’t care if the mustached dude you’re with is your husband or your mailman. The Sybaris just wants your nice, American dollars.
So, really, there was no reason I couldn’t have my birthday party at the Sybaris. RUDE, MOM. Rude.
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