My sister came over and decided she wanted to get away tomorrow evening for her long weekend. She bought a book, and we looked for Bed & Breakfasts online. She found one she liked, I think probably because the description said it was the perfect place to curl up with a good book. Here is where she’ll arrive tomorrow, in her white summer dress, the day before labor day, with a book under her arm:
When you’re single, you can do that. You can drive off for a weekend and stay in some strange room with probably way too many flowers wallpapered everywhere. You can pick up a book, not because it’s on a reading list, but because it’s pink with swirly writing and grabbed your attention because at the time you were craving a cupcake. Domestic life is much more scheduled, and very contrived. Everything is done with a plan, mapped out. I actually fold my clothes when I pack now. Yeah, I pack now. Hard to believe. Long weekends are chores, trips to Ace Hardware and exercise.
I don’t miss being single. I love my husband and have become rather dependent on him. But I do miss spontaneity. A small price to pay though for a house and a dog and a man who loves me. Amber told me we could open up a bed and breakfast here, and serve toaster strudels for breakfast and instead of reading by a fireplace, our guests would be forced to hear the sports game du jour blaring from the television set. Not a bad idea, I thought. I know quite a few people who would prefer that to some wallpaper and birdhouses any day. In the mean time, I will read my books with my iPod in, always trying to drown out the sound of a referee’s whistle.