I love the idea of going on vacation. My suitcase sits in our spare bedroom closet just itching to be called upon for another excursion. A guilt sets in when I haven’t shoved five extra days worth of clothes and three pairs of shoes I won’t even wear into its loving folds, tenderly zipping up my travel companion. I am sure there are still bits of Jamaican soil dusting the fabric as evidence of our honeymoon. However, as much as I’d love a great getaway with the weather warming to sixty degrees and the snow threats quietly receding, I also love the novelty of staying home.
My greatest surprise last week was not a spontaneous trip somewhere exotic, but it was getting into the shower and realizing my husband unclogged the shower drain without being asked. I no longer had to slosh through the tub, soaking my feet in the leftovers of yesterday’s grime and shampoo. While this may not sound as romantic as bathing in Caribbean sunlight on a white beach, it is the everyday romance that enhances the mundane.
I love Saturday mornings when no alarm has been set, and we lie down, both cats nestled in their spots on the bed, and listen to airplanes descend toward the airport next to our apartment. We laugh about jokes we told yesterday, using a pillow to muffle the hysterics if the other is offended. We cry the tears that need to be felt and even the ones that don’t. We contemplate the universe’s mysteries and the sugar content of Capri Suns. We make plans for the day and for all the days ahead of us.
This is our daily reality and our daily vacation. Though my tendency is to look ahead, beyond some distant horizon and to order my own steps toward a future adventure, I want to live in the novelty of our now.
Today has never happened and will never happen again.