It’s warm and humid as I leave the jet rampway and enter the Honolulu terminal. Greeters stand with strings of flower leis, and the heavy sweet fragrance is overpowering. And just as Anne said, in baggage claim a driver waits for me, sign in hand. Together we claim my luggage, and then it’s off in the back of his white limousine for my hotel in downtown Waikiki.

I get a glimpse of the ocean as the limousine travels the freeway, and then again as we exit the freeway for town. I feel more butterflies in my middle. I’m on holiday. I’m feeling a little giddy. Maybe, just maybe, this could be fun.

The hotel is modern on the outside, sleek, with high white walls and little bits of roof visible. But once inside the foyer the hotel falls away, the walls disappearing, and the open-air lobby is all quiet native woods and elegance.

My room is ready, and it’s enormous, not exactly a suite but luxuriously spacious, with a sitting area, a separate desk, and a Carrera marble bathroom the size of a studio apartment.

I change into a swimsuit and cover-up, pack my straw bag with suntan lotion, books, and sunglasses, and set off for the pool. I’m met poolside by a tan man in short navy shorts, a white polo T-shirt, and white tennis shoes.

He’s the towel boy, but not exactly a boy, and he grabs an armful of blue-and-white-striped towels and then guides me around the pool until I find the right chair in the right amount of sun.

“This is good,” I say, setting my straw bag next to a pair of empty lounge chairs not far from the wall separating pool from beach.

“Excellent.” He gets to work. Pfoosh, towel spread on lounger. Pfft, umbrella raised, providing perfect shade.

And then towel boy-man is stepping back, hands folded behind his back in an unnervingly militaryesque pose. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, thank you.” And I settle into my lounger to see what the rest of the day brings.

It brings the cocktail waiter.

Keith, another very tan boy-man in shorts and a white short-sleeved polo, circles the pool, which has begun to get crowded as the afternoon progresses. But I’m not ready to order a drink yet.

Under the semishade of my umbrella, I study the pool area. Today seems heavy with men, mostly middle-aged men with rounded bellies, gray curling hair on their chest and in their goatees.

Watching the clusters of men, shiny with suntan oil, I wonder if this is my future.

No, I answer just as quickly. Absolutely not. Can’t be.