[Mara Hoffman hooded caftan + J.Crew hat + Gara Danielle beads.]
There are trips, and there are getaways.
There are vacations, and there are soul-quenching breaks from everyday life that smooth you out. Breaks from worry.
Even my split ends are chill like Sade and a bottle of Bombay.
I’m not hesitant to point out that I’m not on a vacation-friendly budget these days. Neither of us are. Money, in a chorus line of other worries, high kicks around in my brain at odd hours when I should be asleep. Our vacation fund jar slowly filled up, thanks to cash tips and Craigslist sales, but I had to empty it the other day in prep for quarterly taxes. And so it goes.
We waited until the season was almost entirely over to impulsively take two back-to-back trips—free and family-style, booked without second thought—like two stragglers bolting headlong into an empty boxcar rattling down the tracks. Free ride, baby. The kind that don’t come along very often after your twenties.
So we’ve recreated a sliver of our first 2 months together, almost in reverse, feeling the bits of establishment from a happy, busy marriage, responsibility, and homeownership flake off until we’re just two kids again, bowled over by ample sunshine, cool breezes, and moments worth celebrating. Letting the things that the other says fill up our heads with woozy affection.
When we first met, I used to check Rob out through my glasses when he wasn’t paying attention.
I’m glad these past few days have taught me: not much has changed.
Checked the guest book, not sure if I’d find any evidence of my prior visits to the cottage, but sure enough:
And, 3 years later:
Let’s forget for a moment I’ve probably got wicked, butt-biting, untreated anxiety. Anyway, if I do, it checked out for the week.
It was as if during that first night, when I found my message from myself back in 1993, I decided what passes for butt biters these days might be a little different than back then.
Thanks for the reminder, little me.