I have to plan something fun, exciting, possibly dangerous, probably involving alcohol. Nothing super-strenuous. I have a weak ankle...
On the evening of Friday last, the Man and I went to Orleans for dinner. We split the Cobb salad and the fig/prosciutto pizza. We do this pretty much every time. It's delicious. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. Sharing is caring.
Saturday morning on our way to his parents' lake cottage in NH, we stopped at Weston Nurseries and bought a tree for our front yard and some gardening stuff for his mom's birthday. We debated garden tool style and discussed the advantages of fifteen foot trees over eight foot trees.
We stopped at Chipotle and Starbucks on the way there.
We grilled food, had pleasant conversation, and went to bed at a reasonable time.
Sunday, the Man helped his dad mow the lawn and I sat with his Mom. We talked. We had lunch.
On the way home we bought rain barrels so that we could use them for all of our new plants and the new tree.
I made us salmon and corn on the cob. We watched a movie.
Monday we worked on gardening, laundry, tidying up.
This is adulthood for me. And I'm not complaining. I love this fiercely, like, 95% of the time (my, that IS a lot of the time!). But. I need some adrenaline. Some excitement. Some adventure. Some danger?
I realize that I'm me so much it drives me crazy. Because "me" is a rule-following, tooth-flossing, non-mini-skirt wearing bore, generally. You know how on those few episodes of Charles in Charge Scott Baio would hit his head and become "bad" and his name was "Chazz"? I need to do that. Just a little. Something to find my inner Chazz. Preferably with the Man because he's capable of building a makeshift bridge out of vines and spit and wild animal intestines. And you never know when that will come in handy...
ONLY KIND OF RELATED:
It's always perfectly nice spending time with the Man's family because they're just nice people. His parents aren't that different from my parents, really. But it was a little weird to talk to his mom about possibly marrying him one day (we've no current plans). And I said: "Huh. I kind of thought this would be the year we did that." And her saying conspiratorially: "I really did too."
Maybe someone (besides me) ought to tell the Man that this is our year?