My husband did something extraordinary recently—he surprised me with a Palm Springs getaway. In a burst of random romanticism, he scooped me up from work one Friday and informed me that my bags were packed for two nights at a spa hotel. You can imagine my disbelief. Weekend away? Hotel spa? Wait, did he say, bags packed?

Yup, he sure did.

Now to be clear, my man has performed some near-meterosexual feats of fashion in the past. He’s purchased dresses (that fit and I love) along with classy lingerie. As a gal who once traveled for eight months in South America with the same two pairs of pants and five t-shirts, I’m not exactly Kimora Lee. Though admittedly, as I get older, I’m more attached to creature comforts and the right night cream.

So, I had confidence tinged with slight concern as to what he’d packed me for our desert jaunt.

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“Did you remember bikinis?” I asked tentatively.

“Yup,” he confirmed, “three,” and followed up with, “packing for you was a little stressful, so I just grabbed everything I could find.”

“Perfect,” I said. And it was. Speeding to Palm Springs (okay, ambling through rush hour traffic) after a stressful workweek couldn’t be topped. I felt a bit a like Bridget Jones. Bridget, that is, in a Hyundai Elantra, minus frazzled hair, cheating lover, and sexy-bunny costume—I hoped.