Every time for the past few weeks, I keep wanting to say, “Spring is here.” Technically, on the calendar it is, but up here, it depends on the day.
We went from a blizzard dumping a foot and a half of snow on us overnight to shirt-sleeve weather within five days, so we do not take the nice ones for granted.
On the crappy days, I remind myself I moved here for love, not the weather.
But I’m still California dreamin’.
Last weekend, as a bit of an impromptu escape - and a moment to snatch some alone time together in the rare good weather - my husband surprised me with an overnight getaway.
It was incredible. The hotel felt tailor-made for me, with its unique blend of elegance and hard-rock edge.
A bathtub big enough to swim in and a shower with so many sprays it felt like a human car wash.
Dinner was at this quiet, unique little spot steeped in history. Calm atmosphere, great table, no kids…everything exactly how it should be.
But before the appetizers were even ordered, I was in a full-blown panic attack.
And all I could think was goddamnit. Not again.
I’d been doing so well. I thought I was over it by now. But it doesn’t take much. Sometimes it’s not even what’s happening, but what I start thinking.
Ironically, I get so concerned about ruining the special evening that I end up…ruining the special evening.
My husband, God love him, is incredibly patient and loving, which only makes me feel more guilty. Because when it's happening, I’m mentally beating myself up big time.
Next thing I knew (after half an hour hyperventilating in the bathroom), he had our meal packed up to go.
Back at the hotel, I was sitting on the bed in his t-shirt, taking tiny sips of Sprite, trying not to throw up while the smell of his food filled the room.
That was our night.
