Going Out.

I’m almost afraid to say this out loud lest something happen to change it, but through some fluke of nature, Billy is actually scheduled to have this coming Friday AND Saturday off from work. For those who don’t understand the monumentality of what I’m talking about, that is TWO WHOLE DAYS IN A ROW. That he doesn’t have to work. 48 straight hours he can do whatever he wants. This hasn’t happened without heavy negotiating in about two and a half years.

So as not to waste such a precious opportunity, I hurriedly requested Friday off myself and now we are going camping! The car is rented and the campsite is reserved. I’m deliriously excited about the prospects of using the charcoal grill at the site and roasting marshmallows for s’mores over an open fire and telling ghost stories until the wee hours of the morning. I even considered buying an old acoustic guitar off of Craigslist, even though I only remember how to play one chord (it’s the one Phoebe refers to as “bear claw”) because how cool is it to play guitar and sing folk tunes before a roaring fire in the middle of the wilderness?

I’m excited about hiking the surrounding area and going on wine tours. I’m excited about fighting over how the sleeping bag situation will work and which one of us REALLY knows how to pitch a tent. I’m excited to spend a whole entire weekend away from the apartment I haven’t cleaned in a month, and a city that doesn’t respect my boundaries one little bit.

I am so excited, dear Internet, that I am not even worried about the fact that Billy and I? Billy and I do not even own a tent.

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