Saturday on our way home, we picked up dinner and took time to sit down and eat before we unpacked the car. Things trailed from the living room up the stairs to the bedroom. We changed into pajamas and took a nap. When we woke up, we slothed our way to the loft and turned on our computers for the first time since shutting them down six days before. I scrolled to the bottom of my iGoogle homepage to see the damage waiting in my Google Reader: 1000+ unread items. Google just stopped counting after 1000. Nice. I marked “all as read” and called it a day. If anything important happened, I’ll never know. Or find out way late. As is par for the course.
Then I saw this:
It had been counting down the days for over a month and now it was done. Over. Came and went.
And with that…my heart broke a little bit.
I fully expected to be overwhelmed, anxious, and over-all freaking-the-fuck-out over our vacation. I expected to be stressed beyond all normal levels of stress (my normal levels of stress, that is). I expected to be stupidly, excessively excited over the concert. I fully expected to feel the post-concert melancholy of “damn…it’s over.”
All of which did happen.
What I did NOT expect was the sudden, over-powering deluge of emotions to come hammering down on me out of nowhere within a few hours of getting home, unpacking a bag, and OH MY GOD WHY THE FUCK AM I CRYING OVER A ZIPLOCK BAG OF TINY TRAVEL BOTTLES OF SOAP AND SHAMPOO???
Coming home after six days of my first-ever real vacation, running on little sleep, had my head in a strange state of “I don’t even recognize myself right now.”
The trip was worth it, don’t get me wrong. It was every bit as awesome as I’d hoped for and far beyond. (Getting rear-ended at a stop light on our way out of town and my subsequent full-blown panic attack in a strip mall parking lot notwithstanding.) (More on that later.) But for someone who is a staunch creature of habit and resists change with every fiber of her being, it was a lot to handle.
I’ve been trying to write about our trip. Every time I do, I’m reduced to a snotty, weepy mess. I’m not entirely sure why. It’s just me, I suppose.
I’ll get it written…someday. Because documenting the good stuff is far more important than documenting anything else.
I swiped this picture from Andy Grammer’s Facebook page. Bob and I are technically in this shot. We’re waaaaay back in row 51, right in the middle of the amphitheater. (Straight back from the structure right behind Andy.)
AG’s stance pretty much sums up the entire night.
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Extra Ordinary Better Than Ezra |