I don’t know why people love to camp. It’s pretty much torture. And yet when you’re done you want to do it again. It makes zero sense.
My birthday trip - whatever it ends up being - is still in flux. Of course what I want is a cute vintage trailer rental and a trip up the coast; but nobody’s car is in good enough shape or has a trailer hitch, so we may try for an RV. Lots of details to hammer out and at the moment I’m just not up to it.
Still, it was nice having a quiet, device-free weekend with another family in which the kids got to play with other kids for the first time in months, I got to live out my pioneer fantasies, and the BF got to fish (unsuccessfully). I want to book up the whole summer with camping trips. This will (hopefully?) be the only summer of our lives where I have no event to plan for and the BF has no work, so I want to make the most of it.
This week two “normal” things return to our lives. One - I have my first hair appointment since I think February. The other, and the one that will really make a difference in my day-to-day life, is welcoming back our house cleaner. I’ve positively loathed keeping up with the cleaning around here, especially with four people who never leave. She was more than happy to come back, and I feel like it’s worth the risk - we won’t be around when she’s here, and everything will be disinfected that we touch, so...? I figured it’s worth the minor risk. Taking a lot of new risks lately, with mixed results as you can see. I have mixed feelings about all of it. But I also know we can’t go on like it’s perpetually last April. Obviously lots of other people around the world feel similar...to their peril. California’s numbers are stubbornly terrible, and yet all of us have started to venture out. Let’s hope we don’t live to regret it.
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