I'm taking a couple late-summer days off next week to noodle around on leisure writing. Perhaps this sounds bananas to normal people, taking a staycation from a writing job to write, but, you know. Some of us were a pleasure to have in class.

My husband is taking the same days off with a goal to clean the garage, a task I want nothing to do with. I have never even heard of a garage. What is a garage? Like a model partner, I have chosen to fly solo into intellectual bliss while he dodges reptilian monsters bursting from crumbling boxes of physical media. Please, this is fair.

I devised romantic plans in my head. I would venture into secluded woods to find focus and wisdom among God's creatures. No 24-hour news cycles about food poisoning and decoy planes, no dodging content creators performatively eating scones in cafes, no tempting side trips to TJ Maxx. I would book a rental house, somewhere close to home where I could bring the dog to curl at my feet. A retreat of the mind away from familiar garages. A sanctuary for staring wistfully at still basins of freshwater while clutching a steaming mug.

One problem. It is August, and I live in Florida.

So far, here's what I've come up with:

A variety of Comfort Inns, Holiday Inns, Best Westerns and budget-level Hyatts situated along Walden Pond — I mean, the highway.

Plenty of places that won't accept my Pomeranian, Rocket. He is 5 pounds, a senior citizen with hardly any teeth, only barks at every single noise. He will be no trouble at all.

A restored 1900s Presbyterian church with 17 stained glass windows, 20-foot ceilings, marble floors, a chef's kitchen and room to sleep eight. Perfect accommodations for two days, one woman and a laptop.

A few tempting but pricey coastal bungalows with quaint outdoor amenities such as firepits and hot tubs and tiki bars positioned in direct sunlight (we are under a heat advisory).

Party homes genetically engineered for photo shoots in which bridesmaids wear matching floral pajamas and surround the bride under a neon sign that says, "YOU'RE, LIKE, REALLY PRETTY."

A variety of tiny houses where the writing would unfold with the computer balanced on the arm of a futon while I propped one foot on a loft ladder and the other on the kitchen sink.

Suburban homes that look exactly like my suburban home.

This last part was a reminder that I probably already have everything I need, that I don't have to force myself to wake up in an expensive temporary location only to realize there are no coffee filters and drive back home anyway.

Sensing my deflating excitement, my husband suggested maybe I save the bungalow money and we could go out to a fun dinner provided I don't discover him dehydrated on the floor of the garage covered in season three of "Bones" on DVD. There is no denying that the poets loved artisanal fusion tapas, as well as cleaning the garage.

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: Raphaël Biscaldi at Unsplash