I will be incredibly sad if there ever comes a day where I do not get excited that we have chocolate pudding and mango juice in the house. And by excited I mean crazy-dancing-in-the-kitchen-with-the-cats-when-no-is-looking excited.
I also miss the beach. It’s getting too chilly for weekend getaways, and I can no longer sit on top of our kayak and read for hours on end. It’s carefully covered in the basement now and I’m many miles away, spending close to eight hours a day in cafés, writing. But even though I’m feeling nostalgic and wistful, part of me doesn’t want to be there. If life consisted solely of summer at the beach, it wouldn’t be special anymore. I wouldn’t get excited stomachaches the night before we left or enjoying walking into town for milky way ice cream every evening. I wouldn’t like having to constantly change clothes to deal with the temperature changes or having to put up with how the humidity makes my normally very straight hair bushy. It’ll be seven months until I return, so for now I’ll look at pictures and sigh.