An interpretive self-portrait. “Blue Marble” photo courtesy of NASA, 1972.
I returned to work from a surreal, blissful weekend with a cold.
My nose burns, my bones ache.
Truth is, there’s something grounding or reassuring about the reality: mucous and all. In between the hugs and back-slapping, the retelling of the play-by-play, the flicking through photos, in between was DayQuil. Sneezing. My coworkers. Meetings. Phone calls and emails that had nothing to do with getting engaged, the meaning of existence, or love.
And this is good! This means that what happened last weekend wasn’t a dream (some day, incidentally, I’ll tell you about my dream, the first night of Gabi and my getaway, wherein a family of four including two adolescents moved into the vacation house). The weekend was a gift, a time to be removed from the troubles of the world and float in a temporary paradise.
Today was the second part of the gift: the realization that you get to keep it.
Some clothing is for the fantasy. Part of what I enjoy about my favorite designers is the fantasy they play with (and often undermine). And certain occasions invite us (or allow us, anyhow) to play with fantasy.
On the other hand, when the party’s over, it’s time for a plain, white T.
It’s good to come home.
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