It feels a little intimate, this whole sharing of the bedroom.
I mean… when it looked like this, is was no big deal.
It was just a room. An uninteresting, plain yogurt, asexual cube of space.
But now?
It’s like she’s hiked her skirt up a little bit, and now I’m not sure how I feel about you looking at her.
Because you might judge her.
And you might not be into the kinds of things I’m into.
Like the charcoal gray walls or the S&M sex toy we’ve hung from the ceiling.
Oh, wait. That’s just my armillary antiqued silver chandelier.
You know, inspired by those awesome looking armillary spheres that depict the earth as the center of a cosmic system with various rings representing the circles of all of those floaty things up in the sky.
I happened to luck upon finding an open item on their website, meaning someone else bought this beauty and returned it.
I can’t imagine why.
So, with Bellacor’s guarantee that the product had all of the pieces and was in brand new condition, I bit the non-returnable bullet and purchased this baby for $109.
Is it still more than I’d like to admit spending?
Definitely.
But I think I might be in love. And the pattern it splays across the ceiling when it’s turned on is phenomenal.
You’ll just have to wait to see that, though.
A girl can’t reveal all of her secrets in a single day.
So this is where my bedroom makeover is so far: Painted trim, painted ceiling, painted walls, and new light.
I warned you before, and I’ll say it again — the room might not be everyone’s cup o’ tea, but it’s my cup o’ Tanqueray and tonic with a squeeze of lime.
So far it’s sexy and sultry with a splash of celestial.
It was one of those moments when, clear as crystal, I had an epiphany — we really should lie the television down while we move it, I thought, rather than balancing it up on its stand.
Of course, as is common in these types of scenarios, I was having that epiphany as I pressed the accelerator when the light turned green. In the forward momentum, the backwards-facing television decided that it would rather stay at the stop light, so it fell, face down, and landed on top of a file cabinet.
And I got that feeling. You know that sickly feeling when you feel like life is playing a joke on you? Like any second time is going to rewind itself to the moment before The Incident happened, and you’ll have time to change the way things went down? Like this really can’t be happening, and we’ll just stop at the office to drop off the filing cabinet, and then there will be plenty of room to properly arrange the large, not-inexpensive flat screen television in such a way that basic physics won’t lead to its ultimate demise?
But wait. That already happened.
And now I have to explain to my boss, when we show up at his new house to which we were helping him move his family’s worldly possessions from his old house, why, exactly, I broke one of the two things I was responsible for transporting.
After that thought crossed my mind, a more primal instinct took over. I’m not exactly sure, but I think this is the conversation that took place in my car:
Me: We could just keep driving. We could just keep going and start over with nothing but this Tracker, a filing cabinet, and a broken, flat screen television to our names.
Justin: That sounds great, except for the part where I get arrested for ditching the military.
Me:We could just throw it out the back of the Tracker and tell him we got mugged when we were driving through a less-than-savory part of town.
Justin: We didn’t drive through a less-than-savory part of town. He’ll only believe that story if we tell him we got mugged by a McDonald’s employee or grass-fed prep school children.
Me: It could happen.
Justin: And the only thing they stole was the flat screen?
Me: What else are they going to steal? Mixed CD’s from 1998? A pack of kleenex? The copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull I bought in a used bookstore in Canon Beach in 2003 that’s been sitting in the pocket of my door ever since?
Justin: Good point. But we’d have to file a police report to make it believable, and I refuse to get involved in that type of scandalous affair.
Me: What, they didn’t teach you that in Catholic school? That it’s okay to file false police reports on your wife’s behalf so she doesn’t have to tell her boss that she broke his expensive television? That you BOTH broke his expensive television? Don’t forget, Mister, you were in the car. That makes you an accomplice. And I’m your wife. Catholics are totally into that idea of doing-whatever-the-spouse-wants-no-questions-asked, right? I mean, it’s for the good of the marriage. I could be carrying your CHILD.
Justin:What? You could?
Me: No. It was a hypothetical.
Justin: …
Me: Let’s talk about something else.
In the end, my boss wasn’t mad. Or at least he did a good job of hiding it. I console myself by saying it was an older flat screen, and he said he’d been looking for an excuse to buy a new one anyway.
That, and the fact that I work for a bargain. And he knows it.
And we’re the only people who showed up to help him move.
And we did it for free.
So hey.
You get what you pay for, right?
I’m pretty sure there’s a lesson to be learned here. Something like… don’t do nice things for other people because it will likely bite you in the ass.
I don’t have time to write anything this morning because I’m already terribly late for a work-related breakfast meeting on this holiday morning, and I’m honestly not sure what’s worse — that I’m late for work on a holiday morning, when many other people are still tucked warmly in their beds or sitting comfortably at their own kitchen tables with a cup o’ java and their morning readery, or that I’m actually semi-excited for my greasy diner sausage cheese biscuit, crappy coffee, and glass of orange juice.
Hey. We do this diner work thing every month, and one gets accustomed to certain delicacies.
Anyway, in lieu of an actual post this morning, I’m leaving you with this:
A photo of the best mojito I’ve ever had in my entire life (Thanksgiving-ish, 2011, Miami, FL),
and this:
Me and my apparently giant hands, just trying to enjoy said mojito without the paparazzi getting all up in my bidness.
A couple of days ago, I found myself slipping. Bemoaning the lot in our military life that’s landed us in the same place for so long. I was doing something meaningless — dropping flyers and a lockbox off at a new listing, driving through the usual drudgery of pawn shops and Asian markets and the suffocating stench of fried food and giant southern truck exhaust. I was headed west, and I knew that if I kept going, I would eventually race along the south side of the military training lands, where they shoot stuff and drop stuff and fall from the sky like little turds from a bird only they never land on anyone’s head.
Unless, of course, they plan it that way.
But I didn’t keep going, because I had things to do. A right turn to make, into a tiny pocket of suburbia tucked just off of the main road and into a deluded fog of quiet seclusion and community togetherness. I tapped my brakes, and that’s when I saw it. Due west, straight ahead, the biggest bird in my sky at that moment — probably a C-17 with a 170 foot wingspan and 4 bulky engines carrying its unlikely hulk above the tree line over the rise ahead. And then they started dropping, the turds from the bird, only way, way cooler. They seemed random and graceful the way they fell, one after another after another, then pop pop pop went their parachutes almost immediately, seeming precariously close to one another and then falling, falling and from this distance looking like so many tiny Mary Poppins silhouettes gliding down across the setting sun and over the London skyline comprised, in this case, of the tallest Longleaf Pines.
I can’t find a credit for this photo. If it’s yours, please let me know.
It was stunning.
And, no matter how many times I witness this surprise display of Paratrooping prowess, it will never get old. Never.
It will never not be cool to me.
Which is comforting, because in this life, it’s so easy for things to fall off of our radars, whether because someone tells us it’s no longer cool to like these things, or we outgrow them ourselves. And sometimes it feels like this race — like we drop one trend, clear the overalls and jean skirts from our wardrobes, and just a short 10 years later, we’re filling it up again. Denim, denim everywhere!
Doesn’t it get tiring? This constant struggle to look the right way, say the right thing, be the right person?
I mean, really. If we all loved the same things, there would never be anything new to discover. And stores would constantly be sold out of yoga pants. And we wouldn’t procreate because Scott Bairstow is taken.
And I realized that day that to me, no matter what anyone else tries to say, these things will never stop being cool:
The Toadies.
Absolut Vodka ads.
Harry Potter books.
Bangs.
Geography.
Billy Joel.
(Every voice heard in this song is his. The only instrumental accompaniment is a bass guitar. Tell me that’s not awesome.)
The Tracker.
So. What’s your list?
*Thanks once again to the Barenaked Ladies for providing the post title. I couldn’t do it without you.
In light of the fact that Justin and I celebrated Valentine’s Day together for the first time 3 years into our relationship and bought each other a marriage “game over” t-shirt and the complete box set of Carmen Electra’s Strip Aerobics (can you guess who received which gift?), you would think I’d be over this V-day thing entirely and that this year we’d kick back on the couch, trough some sloppy joes, and practice opening beer bottles with our butt cracks.
However, I’ll have you know, romance isn’t entirely dead to me on this day.
In fact, this year we’re doing something super romantic.
Technically we worked on it over the weekend and I will be painting the walls on my day off tomorrow, so really tonight we might hang the light or something, then sit on the floor admiring our handiwork while eating sloppy joes — the homemade kind, not the crap from a can. Because we’re crazy like that. And to me, nothing says love like ground beef on a bun.
Anyway, we are making progress. Justin primed and painted the ceiling, and I cleaned and painted all of the baseboards, door and window trim.
*NOTE: If you’re going to take on a room painting project and the trim needs to be painted as well, start with the trim FIRST. Just trust me on this.
FYI, cleaning a room after popcorn removal and ceiling sanding is not an easy task. It requires a shop vac, a regular vac, patience, and some elbow grease. Guess which one of these 4 I don’t have.
While Justin was at work last week, I got started on the grungy baseboards.
You can see how bad they were, even post-scrubbing.
Ignore the “special” trim brush I’m using and my creepy red hand. My hand isn’t really that red.
I hated that paint brush. When I did the rest of the trim over the weekend, I found it much more effective to use my usual Wooster shortcut brush.
That big flat spatula tool that Justin had used to scrape the ceiling worked wonderfully to hold down the carpet while I painted the baseboards.
I was meticulous about not getting paint on the carpet. That is, until I got paint on the carpet.
Lots of it.
This is after instinctively glopping (because that’s a word) the bulk of it up with some paper towels.
See, I was wedged between the wall and the dresser, and in my haste to get out from the confined space, I spilled the paint. And while we’re going to replace the carpet eventually, I’d rather not have a huge paint splotch constantly reminding me of my inadequacies until that day arrives.
So, after hastily consulting Facebook on my phone, I went to work dumping water onto the spill and soaking it up with a towel before reading the responses.
Turns out this was a wise move, since my oh-so-helpful Facebook plea responses included: gum, bleach, peanut butter, scissors, an ice cube, carpet colored paint, a rug, and urine.
Thanks, guys.
Really, though — this is why I love my friends. They make me laugh when I kind of want to cry. And there were definitely some useful tips too, like water, a carpet shampooer, and this stuff.
Fortunately though, the water/towel method ended up working just fine since I didn’t let the paint dry, and there was no need to pull out the ol’ shampooer or overnight myself some latex paint remover.
Whew.
Remember how I told you that every DIY project takes much longer than you would expect?
Well.
I’m starting to think it’s just me.
So. Are you doing anything special for V-day like hanging a ceiling light or watching paint dry?
It’s not that I have a problem with Valentine’s Day — it’s just that I’m not really into the typical accoutrements (hearts, candy, flowers, hearts, sappy cards, and hearts) that come with it. Now. If Justin were to bring home… say… 2 airline tickets to the Galapagos Islands, we’d be in business.
Okay. So where was I on my fantastic Taste Carolina food tour? I believe we were carrying Alfred’s pecaaaahn pie over to the Carrboro Beverage Company to wash it down with a brewski. Because nothing goes with sweet pie better than a bitter stout.
The Carrboro Beverage Company is owned by Tyler’s Tap Room, which is apparently a very popular tavern in the area. I’ll have to go back to try it out.
You know, for research.
Unfortunately, I feel a little like this is where the tour started going downhill. We were becoming full and tired, and then we introduced alcohol into the mix. The guys working here were very friendly, but they seemed unsure about what they were supposed to serve us, so they just started handing out samples of whatever they had on tap. There also happened to be a wine representative in the place, so we had more than our fair share of samples, but combine all of that with a slice of fresh pecan pie, and they almost had to roll me out of there.
They rolled me right into the place I’d been most looking forward to on the tour — Acme.
We’d eaten there with Alaina and Dirk once before, and from what I remembered, the food had been spectacular.
Which is why, needless to say, I was more than a little disappointed when they came out with what basically amounted to glorified nachos.
Sure they looked pretty, and the taste of the homemade chips dusted with goat cheese and a squeeze of fresh lime was good, like goat cheese, and who doesn’t like goat cheese, but it just… wasn’t what I’d been expecting. I suddenly felt like the annoying neighbor who’d dropped by unexpectedly, so our hosts rummaged through the fridge and threw together whatever they could find. And after a morning of service by enthusiastic and prepared artisans who were incredibly proud of their products, this just felt like a letdown.
That said, I’d still recommend them if you’re planning to spend some money. The food really can be phenomenal, and they have a gorgeous courtyard out back.
The next 2 stops, Miel Bon Bons and Jessee’s served more as an interlude for all of the gastronomical craziness going on. We sampled tiny macaroons and chocolate confections at the little patisserie with its stunning displays of pastries, candies, and the most beautiful wedding cakes I’ve ever seen (which they wouldn’t let me photograph, but you can see plenty on their website).
At Jessee’s, we took a rest and sipped refreshing flavored iced teas.
This was the reprieve we needed, apparently, because I felt rejuvenated. Which was extremely fortunate, because for the next stop, I needed my energy.
We were able to meet Vimala herself, who opened this restaurant with the help of the community. After emerging — alive — from an abusive marriage, family and friends encouraged her to open this cafe, where her motto has always been, “When Vimala cooks, everyone eats!” She will feed anyone who comes through her door, regardless of whether they can afford it or not.
But her generosity is not a cover for lack of flavor.
This was just… the best. And my biggest regret is not taking sufficient notes so I could accurately describe to you the deliciousness that we ate.
All I can say is if you like Indian food, or you think you might like to think about liking Indian food, this is a great place to start.
Then finally — finally — we were nearing the finish line.
Our guide stopped us on a corner to talk about the place we were about to enter, the Open Eye Cafe, but I couldn’t concentrate due to the food coma my brain was trying to fight off, so I took photos of bees instead.
Dudes. I totally felt buzzzzzed.
Ha.
So we entered the coffee shop, and I’ll be honest — I wish this would have started the tour, since they by far had the lengthiest and most informative presentation. But after 9 stops and countless indulgences, I wasn’t sure the Open Eye Cafe could… well… keep my eyes open. Which is a shame, because they took us into the back room, where a more conscious mind would have learned from a true coffee connoisseur how to brew the perfect cup of coffee. From selecting the best free trade beans from individual farmers around the world, roasting their beans in-house, and adjusting the brewing water temperature to suit the particular bean — they knew it all. Really. This place could be more intimidating than a winery, and their super-trained and certified baristas do, in fact, hold tasting competitions with coffee.
It’s that serious.
He brewed a couple of different samples for us to try, and even my husband, who is not a black coffee drinker, had no problems getting this down.
If I learned nothing else, I did learn that coffee-making is an art much more complicated than pouring a glass of wine.
And, if done right, can lead to an exceptional tasting experience.
We drove to Dirk and Alaina’s to see the baby, but there’s a chance I might have wandered out to their porch by myself, stretched out on the couch, and took a nap.
Times when it’s cold, and the forecasters predict that later today it will progressively get colder, because there’s this evil thing called a COLD FRONT and it’s headed this direction and some time — some foreboding time later this afternoon — it’s going to actually start feeling a little bit like winter, and even though it’s already mid February, which means I’ve had months to prepare for this, I realize I’m still not prepared and I feel like it would probably be best for everyone if I just stayed snug under my 35″ high covers until April.
That’s right, we’re still sleeping in the guest room, in case you were wondering.
The progress on our bedroom is slow, and not very steady, but I promise you there is progress, even though it occasionally/all-of-the-time gets hindered by wine by the fire and new episodes of Revenge and me spilling baseboard paint on the carpet.
Yes, that happened.
Yes, I will tell you about that little fiasco one day soon, when I’m ready to share some more positive progress.
But anyway. Not only do I have the overwhelming urge to hibernate this time of year, but I also reminisce. I reminisce on happy times of yore, like just 4 months ago when it was pleasant and warm and sunshiny — when I could wake up with the bright morning rays, stand outside in all of my barefooted glory, sip my coffee and stretch to greet the world.
Nearly 4 months ago, on the weekend of my 29th birthday, we did something we should probably be doing a lot more frequently.
The concept is simple. I’ve heard it called “taking a ‘staycation,'” in which the participants are traveling, but not, because they’re staying at home. But I don’t really like those cutesy terms people come up with to make a concept stick — like “Brangelina” or “frenemy” because they make me feel lazy, so really. I’ll call it what it was. It was a day trip. Something fun we could do without the cost of booking a hotel or packing camping gear or sleeping in the car.
I know.
It sounds like we’re taking all of the fun out of travel. But hear me out.
See, with my unending itch to explore and discover and be moving all of the time and Justin’s desire to… well… not, we discovered this extremely enjoyable and compatible compromise that earned us at least 2 weeks worth of patting ourselves on the back for how awesome we sometimes are at being married.
We both love trying new foods, so when I heard about gourmet food tours by Taste Carolina, I knew exactly what I wanted for my birthday. We opted for the walking tour of Chapel Hill and Carrboro, which is about an hour and a half from where we live, for $44.98 per person, which earned us over 3 hours and 8 stops at amazing, locally owned eateries. That’s less than we would’ve spent on a “fancy” night out at our local Red Lobster.
We were pretty psyched.
Now this is where I’m a bad blogger. Bad. I actually managed to take many pictures this time, so no worries there, but notes? None. I didn’t expect to wait 4 months before blogging about it. So, sadly, I don’t remember many of the details about what we ate, but I will try my best to explain and then let the pictures speak for themselves.
Our very first stop was one of the best, in my humble little opinion. I was a little camera-shy at the start, so I didn’t get a photo of the place, but it was called Neal’s Deli. I was a little disappointed that the tour didn’t take us inside the establishment, but instead we were parked on some benches outside. My disappointment quickly faded when I bit into one of these:
On the left, we have what I believe to be some type of homemade pastrami with mustard. The beef was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted — full of pressed spices and divine on the homemade buttermilk biscuit. The other was some type of egg and cheese, with a buttery, melty consistency that made me want to eat one of these every morning for the rest of my life. It made me very, very glad that I don’t pass Neal’s on my way to work.
Next, we headed to the renowned Carrboro Farmers’ Market, established in 1996. It’s held every Wednesday and Saturday morning in the “town commons” (no joke), and it felt like stepping into a type of fairy land filled with fresh produce, vibrant blooms, hand-made crafts, and local meats, cheeses, and an impressive variety of gourmet delicacies.
Our first stop in the market was at the booth of Chapel Hill Creamery, a company I love because I love to say its name. Go ahead. Say it out loud. Sounds like something you might say if you’d lived in pioneer times, like in the game The Oregon Trail. “I’m off to the Chapel Hill Creamery to fetch some cheese before we leave,” you’d say, not knowing that you’re destined to die 3 days later from a broken leg you suffered during a wagon axle accident while fording a river, and you’ll wish you’d just stayed with the happy cows at the creamery, because California is probably overrated anyway. (It’s not.)
My favorite was their Dairyland Farmer’s Cheese, which was very simple, creamy, and would probably taste delicious melted over some frijoles negros and tucked inside a burrito.
Next, we were treated to a very generous sample from The Pig, a restaurant with a booth at the market serving up fresh grilled pork franks made from local, hormone and antibiotic free piggies.
Of course, I tried the Reuben frank because it marries one of my favorite sandwiches (the Reuben) with one of my favorite foods (the Hot Dog) to create this orgasmically inspired offspring:
They say you can taste the difference between real meat and the kind you buy discount packaged at the grocery store, and now I’m convinced. You can.
I’m pretty sure if I were going to buy tongue, it would NOT be from my neighborhood Food Lion.
Moving on.
Our last stop at the market was at that of the fantabulous Alfred De La Houssaye’s Sweetwater Pecan Orchard.
If I remember correctly, he started the orchard because he loves pecans and he loves oriental persimmons. Ignoring the fact that everyone told him he would not be able to successfully grow those things here, he managed to do so and to do so quite successfully.
With pizzaz.
And I love him because he insists that the correct pronunciation of the nut is pecaaahn, with a soft “a” and not the harsh, biting hard A that so many southerners use.
And also because he makes these chocolate pecan chewies, which I couldn’t stop eating.
And also because he gave us each a slice of pie to take to our next stop, the Carrboro Beverage Company.
But this post is getting a little long, methinks, so I’m going to save the second half of the tour for next time.
You know how sometimes you can be in a place — a weird place inside your head — and you’re sitting there wondering whether you’re doing the right thing? Whether you took the right exit. Whether you’re following the right path. Because everyone else seems to think that it’s wrong. That you’re falling. That you’ve lost your ever-loving mind.
And then something happens. Some little thing — a well-timed news story, a word of encouragement, a tiny sign of camaraderie from Life — its way of letting you know that while others might not “get it,” the two of you are still on the same team.
Maybe it’s because we look for signs when we need encouragement, and these nudges would mean something completely different had we chosen another road.
Maybe.
But sometimes, something speaks to you, and it’s too loud to ignore.
I no longer remember what series of internet rabbit holes led me to this article or why, instead of depressing me, it made me feel encouraged. It’s written by Bronnie Ware, author of a book called The Top 5 Regrets of the Dying.
Okay, let’s just get the uncomfortable part out-of-the-way first. Yes, dying sucks. I hate it. You hate it. It makes all sad when someone does it. Mostly because we don’t understand it, and that makes it scary. That, and the sense of permanence.
That said, it’s important — so, so important — that we learn in this life the lessons people are willing to teach.
You know, so we don’t have to learn the hard way.
Okay. How many times, since you were a child, has someone tried to save you from learning something the hard way?
Eight hundred seventy-nine million?
And how many times has that stopped you from trying something yourself?
Once? Never?
That’s what I thought.
As a species, we’re relatively hard-headed. Especially when we’re young, when we’re so thirsty for not just knowledge but experience that it matters not that our parents told us not to drink too much. We’re still going to go out, take too many shots from a bottle of peppermint schnapps, become far too honest with too many people, empty our stomach contents all over the bathroom floor, and forever after suffer from an aversion to toothpaste flavored anything.
What? That’s just me?
Well. The irony is, we just become more stubborn when we get older. Only instead of it being about experience and going our own way, it somehow turns into going the right way — the way everyone else is going. We think decisions are no longer an option — that we’re too far caught up in whatever stage we find ourselves (marriage, children, retirement) to think about straying now. We’re flabbergasted and inspired by those who fall from the assembly line way of living and yet, somehow, we think it’s not an option for us. That those people have something special.
But they don’t.
And according to Bronnie Ware, dying people know this all too well. They know they could have done something different, but they simply didn’t. Fear of the Unknown kept them on the straight and narrow, and it wasn’t until they were faced with death that they realized, really, that there was nothing to be afraid of. It’s just Life. So the regrets, apparently, are fairly universal:
1.I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
2. I wish I didn’t work so hard.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
The article offers really nice explanations of each, so I won’t expand. But I think, maybe, that they speak for themselves.
I must apologize to the guys out there for a minute, because I’m going to talk about something a little girly.
Nope. A lot girly.
See, Stephanie over at My One Precious Life got me thinking about wedding dresses. Obviously not about buying wedding dresses since I’m already married, but about selling them. (Not for a living. Trust me, I have not done all of this soul-searching for the past 2 years only to discover that my one true calling is to sell wedding gowns to blushing brides and their overextended pocket books. Blech.
No offense to anyone who sells wedding gowns.)
She, like me, decided to sell her dress post-wedding. I mean, why not? This way you make a little cash, and some other lucky girl scores a gown at a bargain basement price.
Seems like a win-win situation, if you ask me. If you ask anyone else, however, you might run into some contention.
What? You SOLD your wedding dress?? But it’s your WEDDING dress! You know, the one you wore to your WEDDING!
Yep. I know the one.
Bu-but… don’t you MISS it?
Look. I only wore it the one time. And it served its purpose well. But, if we did this thing right, I’ll never need a wedding dress again. Missing it is kind of irrelevant. And keeping it, at least for me, is impractical.
Well what about the memories? You have all kinds of memories in that dress!
Yes, and that’s what photos are for. I find them to be more compact. And less poofy.
And your daughter! What if you have a daughter and she wants to wear that dress??
Okay… so I’m supposed to keep this dress hanging around on the chance that I produce a daughter or a slim cross-dressing son or even have a kid at all. Then, I’m supposed to push all of these expectations on her: She needs to be exactly the same size I was when I got married at 23; she better like the not-exactly-traditional style I picked 3-4 decades earlier and it better be a formal wedding, since this is a formal dress; oh, and she has to get married. Has to. That’s her only option in life. Because I’ll be damned if I paid to have this dress preserved and hanging around this 1,600 square foot house for over a quarter of a century just so my nonexistent daughter can go do something crazy like ignore my inadvertent wedding gown guilt trips and live her life the way she wants.
No way.
Well. You don’t have to be all snarky about it. I just don’t think that I would have the heart to do it. That’s all. I’m not cold and calloused and heartless as you.
Really? Because you’re the one keeping it locked away in a dark closet somewhere, and I’m the one who loved it and let it go — set it free to dance another night.
ewww! Kissy photo!
Okay. So a dress is an inanimate object, obviously, so don’t start feeling guilty if it’s locked in your closet. Especially if you’re super sentimental about it. There’s nothing wrong with that.
But that’s just it — I’m not the sentimental type. At least not when it comes to stuff.
I’m a purger. We do a massive gutting of our closets at least once per year, and with the exception of a few choice childhood mementos and reasonably sized wedding trinkets (like the Air Force garter hand-made by my mother-in-law), anything that sits untouched for a lengthy period of time that I know the chances of me needing again are slim to none, is a goner.
It just feels good.
Keeps me sane.
Like clearing out the junk from my closets is akin to chucking the mushy contents of my mind with an ice cream scoop and starting fresh. With a clean bowl.
And clearly my sanity is more important than a gown. A gown that, while I loved it, just as easily could have been a flowy white linen dress I wore standing on a beach at our destination wedding, had I gotten my way.
And you know what?
I probably wouldn’t have kept that one, either.
*All photos taken by Jeff Pope of Iconic Photography.
No, not in an I-went-to-Hawaii-and-forgot-to-wear-sunscreen-and-all-I-got-were-these-billions-of-dead-peeling-skin-cells kind of way.
And no, not in an I-slept-in-a-questionable-motel-last-night-and-neglected-to-check-the-mattress kind of way.
Twitchy.
Maybe that’s a better word to describe it.
And while last week I rambled on about the camaraderie of backpacks, I’m realizing more and more that I don’t really care how I travel, just as long as I get to travel. It’s simply easier for me to romanticize backpacking when imagining or re-living exotic trips abroad — the implied gritty, grungy, down-in-the-dirt feeling that stems from steering clear of the relative comfort of plush hotels, room service cards, and pre-packaged experiences. To leave the sanctity of the hotel restaurant and buy empanadas from a man behind a chicken wire screen, or better, to devour fried platanos from the tiny kitchen of a generous resident. To experience that uncomfortable feeling of riding on a rickety bus with the locals, knowing I’m noticeably different.
A stranger.
A minority.
It’s humbling. And probably something everyone should experience at least once in her life. Like waiting tables.
And yet.
There’s something in this world about feeling pampered. Or, if not pampered, at least safe. Clean. Looked after. And that kind of travel can be equally wonderful. Where my clothes emerge relatively wrinkle-free from a shallow suitcase and hang in a closet for the duration of a trip. Where if one thing gets wet, everything else doesn’t smell like mildew for weeks on end. Where my burden-free back is left free to stretch and bend and soak in the rays of the sun.
Nope. That’s not so bad. As long as I make it a true point to discover a place — to see more than what a single company or business would have me see — I feel like it’s a trip well-spent.
Take, for example, our honeymoon in St. Lucia back in 2006. It was an excellent balance of hotel pampering mixed with our own adventures:
Luxurious honeymoon suite.
Crazy and scenic cab rides to fancy, schmancy restaurants.
Make-you-wanna-cry views over frozen cocktails.
Tourist food — delicious!
Tourist coconut — more delicious!
Typical street food — MOST delicious.
Travel friends whose names you soon forget.
Locals you know you’ll never forget.
Vacation debauchery and shirts you wish you could forget.
I think the thing that burdens people the most about travel — why some return home feeling the need for a vacation when, in fact, that’s where they’ve been for the last 2 weeks, is because they spend their precious time pressuring it — twisting it and molding it and expecting it to be all of these things that, in reality, it might not want to be.
A tryst with the Unknown is, I imagine, like raising a child. You can want it to grow up to be a doctor. A lawyer. Just like you. Better than you. But you’re setting yourself up for some serious disappointment if you think you can control another soul. If you think you can arrange its life just-so, with the right upbringing, the right education, the perfect amount of discipline and fun time and family time. Because there are always outside influences you can’t predict. Things that will poke and prod and interfere with your project. Things that will influence its way of thinking and growing. Things that could even make it better, if you’d only let them.
So in the end, you have a choice: You can drive yourself crazy trying to steer and constrain, or you can simply set the gears in motion, nurture as best you can, and see what happens.
A trip is like that. It’s not a crafty DIY project you assemble in your garage — it’s a life experience intended simply to be experienced.
That’s not to say you shouldn’t plan. You should always know ways you might get from point A to point B. But you should also be flexible enough to change those plans should a new opportunity arise. This simple shift in thought can mean the difference between a stressed-out, tension-inducing, jaw-clenching whirlwind of befuddlement and a carefree good time.
I’ve quoted them before, and I’ll quote them again:
If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.
-Gin Blossoms
The Unknown is scary.
But, if we’re really honest with ourselves, that’s what makes it so damn fun.
