Damp enthusiasm

I get one weekend a year.

One weekend when I can wake up when I want, do what I want all day and call it a night when I damn well please. One weekend when I can wear whatever I want without fear that a small someone will wipe his or her nose on me. One weekend when the only person who I have to take to the potty is me. One weekend when I can pay other people to cater to my every whim rather than doing the catering myself. One weekend with good friends who knew me before I was a wife, before I was a mommy and before I was a stick in the mud. One weekend filled with luxurious spa treatments, fattening foods, too many glasses of wine and the kind of laughter you can only have with people who know you inside and out. One weekend when I can leave the children in my husband's very capable hands and not look back. One weekend for myself.

Our destination for this one weekend? The beach. You know, so we could all luxuriate in the springtime sunshine and salt air. Could the forecast for the Eastern Seaboard have therefore been anything other than this?



I apparently also have one weekend to curl up in some overstuffed armchair somewhere inside the resort and read the rainy days away. And you know what? I'll gladly take it.