His dream vacation would be akin to Bear Grylls's day job -- man versus wild. Given his druthers, the hubs would bliss out by running up a mountain until it turned snowy, strap on some snow shoes, ascend to the peak, do that scary skiing where your heels lift out to get back down, until he reached an ocean where he could surf and surf and surf, until the dolphins thought he was kin. He'd sleep in a yurt and create sustainable, no trace meals at a fire pit he dug out with bare hands.
There'd be a lot of plaid and facial hair involved.
My druthers, on the other hand, are dipped in glitter.
I think I would sit under a gauzy cabana beside an impossibly turquoise ocean scape and have Muppets bring me pina coladas. I'd lounge in a velveteen hammock with snuggly kittens and the latest NYTimes Bestseller that featured shoes or legs on the cover. I'd sleep in a suite and would sustain myself on pizza.
There'd be a lot of lethargy and sarcasm involved.
Given our disparate ideas of what constitutes a good time, we're pretty good at compromise. He will occasionally help me wind skeins of new yarn with While You Were Sleeping playing on loop in the background; I will occasionally leave the house. Fair's fair.
Today was one of those days.
I invested in a bike at the end of last summer when the gettin's were good. I have decided cycling is infinitely less degrading than running. Sure you wear indecently tight shorts, but they're so binding nothing can jiggle! No cadencing cellulite for all to view and mock!
The weather in Denver has been pretty schizo of late. Saturday was so hot I was sweating through my underwear from the exertion of exhaling. Tuesday I was scraping snow of my car.
Today was sunny, breezy, not too hot, not too cold, and was apparently extremely inviting if you happen to be a flowering tree.
We live near a 65-ish mile path that circumnavigates most of Denver and has numerous branching off points to shorter trails for those of us who aren't bat shit insane. The majority of the path runs parallel to an old canal lined with mature trees that were erupting with blossoms today. It was beautiful.
The thing that really made it worth dragging myself off the couch, besides the investment in my marriage, was the scent of it all. I spent a good five miles trying to piece together words that might adequately capture the smell. It's hard.
It's lame and trying too hard, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head that the scent of spring is akin to flatulence, in that each passing of gas is individual and nuanced, but yet somehow they're all really the same.
I pedaled past the trees and hoped to be down wind. There was something so sweet in the flowers. It almost made my stomach growl. There's probably literally some kind of sugar there that lures insects in, but still.
I finally landed on this:
Take one of those long, fat, pieces of grass, the kind that can whistle just right, and glaze it with equal parts cake baking and your grandmother's perfume.
Spring kinda smells like that. There's a bit of fresh, a bit of sweet, and a bit of nostalgia.
To be clear, I'm not thinking moth balls, I'm thinking more along the lines of the floral spiced scent that smacks you in the face when you open her old jewelry box.
Less smacky though. Not the hefty aroma that gives you a headache, but rather the remnants left in the air after she's gone out to the grocery store.
Anyway. That's what I landed on. Succinctness has never been my strong suit.
At any rate, 16 miles later, I have lived to tell the tale and deemed it official... join me in welcoming the season of whining and sweating; springtime is here.