Readers, this may be the most honest thing ever posted on The Apron Stage. Ready yourselves.

This is live from Guatemala City. Tomorrow morning, we will get in a rental car and drive up to the Guatemalan Highlands where we will stay at a hotel in Salama that boasts hot water on the upper floors. The day after that, we’re heading farther up the Polochic valley. We’ll stay in Senahux, a Q’echi village where women still cook over open fires.

It’s a nine-hour drive, on roads so battered and cut up that the last time we tried it, within five minutes the car seat had been yanked from under the seatbelt and turned upside down.

When I got home I posted pictures of me learning how to make tortillas, of me in front of a wall of Mayan weavings. I knew, instinctively, that these are cool things to like. I talked about them superiorally in social settings and I’m confident it all sounded fantastic.

But here’s the truth: I have spent the last two weeks begging Levi to let us go to Salt Lake or Florida instead of coming to Guatemala.

A side story: Last time, on the drive up, I was stressed out about the baby-unable-to-sit-in-a-carseat situation. “What,” I demanded, “made you say that this was a safe or smart place to bring our baby?” We were listening to a mix CD created by a good friend, and in the middle of our fight, it assumed the role of perfect and most accurate soundtrack. “I lied about being,” sang the Lemonheads, “the outdoor type.”

There you have it. I don’t like adventure. I don’t like traveling unless it’s to London or Paris. I don’t understand vegetarians or healthy people. And the real reason I haven’t joined Facebook is because I’m simultaneously aware of what is cool to write in a profile and how I’m not, in truth, any of those things.

Some confessions.

My favorite book is Gone with the Wind. I’d like to say something written by Nabokov. Or Joyce. But I’m a total sucker for Gone with the Wind and this is probably because of how well Margaret Mitchell writes about kissing.

I’ve only been skiing twice. Whenever someone hears that I grew up in Colorado and went to school in Utah they say, “You must be a big skier?” One might think. Both times I got cold.

I don’t like foreign films. I think they’re slow and who has patience for subtitles? I would rather, much rather, see You’ve Got Mail for the sixtieth time.

Little hole-in-the wall/out-of-the-way restaurants scare me. I have no interest in the “really good” local food that “no one knows about.” I love Big Macs. And on our honeymoon I asked Levi if we could go to Taco Bell. Also, street food is skeezy.

My very favorite exhibit at the Met was the one about supermodels. I could look at pictures of beautiful people all day. While I’ve had some really wonderful moments in front of modern art, truth be told: I don’t understand that either.

On my very last day in New York City I wanted to stay home. The apartment was empty—excepting an air mattress. Fortunately, I married well and Levi insisted that we get out. We can have staring contests anywhere, he said.

I have nothing to prove that I love the outdoors. This one I want to love, and theoretically I do. But mountain biking, rafting, rock climbing, fishing? Wouldn’t it be easier to just go on a walk?

I use our expensive camera like a point and shoot. My mother-in-law is a professional photographer willing to teach me a few things. I even tried to read a book about photography once. Still, I don’t know how to turn off the flash.

I subscribe to The New Yorker but never seem to find time to read it. We’re talking an average of one article per three issues. And have a conversation with me? I’ll find a way to reference that one article.

So there you have it. Do with me what you want. I get it.