On the 10th day of vacation I spring from bed like it has an eject button, the pain of not having access to a communal robe dulled by the fact that I had not gone to bed in a haze of spicy margaritas and VFW popcorn.
I sort through our luggage, making piles of clean clothes and piles of dirty clothes. Usually a suitcase will sit in the middle of our living room floor for weeks and it makes every day as jarring as waking on January 1st with a noisemaker clenched in your teeth and glitter spilling from body crevices. It's the worst.
I had a long list of books to finish and reviews I wanted to write because when I fall behind on reading and writing I feel this panic that is unhealthy, considering these are hobbies. It shouldn't cause me physical discomfort that I have only read three books in October, but I wouldn't say no to an IV filled with words. I call this Owl Panic, named for the time in kindergarten when we made owls out of lunch sacks and I grew frustrated with the slow pace of my peers and tried to work ahead and fucked up my owl and Mrs. Miller made me sit quietly while the rest of the class got to a certain point so she could help me start over again. I watched owls bloom around me while I sat with a busted out sack and my heart raced and I thought "I'LL NEVER CATCH UP!" Owl Panic.
Chuck gets the new iPhone in the mail while I'm finishing "Malarky" by Anakana Schofield. I'm so envious, my teeth itch. Then he gives me his old case so my phone looks new, or at least different. My senses. They're like toddlers.
I decide to maybe join Pinterest. Make a Vegan recipe board. Collect shoe pictures. I sign up, poke around and almost lose my mind. This must be the most inane hobby in the world. I'm sure it's Disneyland for people who like to look at and make pretty things. But I make words and aside from the sort of philosophies that fit perfectly on to the side of a mug, I'm not seeing a lot of words here. I decide to sit out this round of Internet Life in 2012.
Chuck runs errands and texts me from the store: He's forgotten his wallet. I think if this was "Little House in the Big Woods," he would just have someone pencil his purchases into the ledger and we could roll around in a pile of chickpeas cackling at our coup and then pay our bill later when the general store's muscle shows up on horseback and flexes his lice-y beard at us. Instead Chuck has to come home, get his wallet and go back.
I fold clothes and watch "Jersey Shore." I have a lot of stuff to say about "Jersey Shore" in its final season, but I'm not ready to blow my anthropologist wad quite yet. I need to know more about Vinnie.
Dinner is chickpea salad. We struggle to find moving pictures to watch. Turns out I can't handle "Alice in Wonderland" and I don't remember a ton from "Shutter Island," but I have a clear vision of a woman hiding in a cave that seems like a spoiler. We settle on "Oceans 11." For some reason I really like this movie. Chuck hypothesizes that maybe I'm into heist movies. "I bet you're into heist movies," he says. "Siri? Is Christa into heist movies?"
We eat popcorn. We read in bed. It's the end of summer vacation.