The older I get, the more inertia I acquire, and the harder it becomes to pack up my life and head north to get away from my to-do list. Or so it seems. Really, though, most of the prep work this week has been about making sure the house is in decent shape, partly because folks will be staying there while we're away but mostly because there's no buzz-kill like coming home from vacation to a messy, stinky house. So that means doing laundry, cleaning the litterboxes, washing dishes, etc., etc., and so it goes.
Somewhere in there, there's packing, but then there are the birthday parties to attend, a friend who would very likely live the next few weeks without emails from her grandkids if Christie and I don't take time to help her get set up, and the very next thing you know, it's the day before we're supposed to leave for vacation, and I don't at all feel ready, except that in my mind I can already hear the surf and feel the cool wind off Lake Michigan, and it hits me that I don't care if I show up in just the clothes on my back, as long as the road takes me north, where there are people I love and a ramshackle old cottage and a to-do list that's as empty as that long, blue horizon to the west.