PB and I took a few days off last week. We decided to drive north until the temperature was below 100 degrees. It proved to be a long drive, but a lovely time away together. PB is a great travel partner. He does all the driving and lets me read out loud to him.
Going on vacation is like jumping off a twirling merry-go-round. Suddenly the spinning gives way to stillness with open space and time. It’s dangerous — you begin to entertain thoughts about what life would be like without the constant whirl of work and responsibilities. You flirt with the idea of moving to a little cabin on a northern lake and writing the next great American novel. It makes perfect sense at the time — it only seems ludicrous in retrospect.
Turning toward home, you know you have to jump back on the merry-go-round. There is no gradual slide in — you must begin to run and fling yourself on the dizzying platform. It’s not long before it feels right to be spinning around again, but the initial plunge is brutal. Still, at some point, while working up speed to jump back on, the thought crosses your mind, “Do I really want to get back on this thing? Why not go over and swing awhile longer?”