Wednesday, July 30, 2003

The sun and the coolness of the pool are so addictive today, usually this stauch indoor kid is only coming in for lunch (peanut butter sandwich- natch) and heading right back out again, all the while using mass quantities of SPF 30. I realize what a water baby I am. Poolside, Mom is trying to offer some sage advice, which she has taken up as her full-time job when it comes to me these days. Unfortunately, for her, it's something I already know:

"Jennifer, if you just went once a week to the Y. That's all. Just swam laps, or played in the water. You'd come back. You love the water! Don't get caught up in all those extreme exercise turdburgers (my words, not hers...I figure the nagging needed a bit of spicing up). Just do your own thing. Start out slow."

True, Mommers, very true.

I was trying to think about my ultimate happy place. I consider myself a person who can find a happy place in just about any setting. But there are some scenarios that are absolutely primo, in that I get there and have a hard time leavin':
1) Outer Banks beaches are the most beautiful on the East Coast. Gorgeous dahling. So sweet that Tom and Nicole were rumored to have a house here while they were still Tom and Nicole.
2) Pub. Nuff said.
3) Tubing down rivah with pals (how about it, baheads?). Not the snotty end, but the good old naturific section with plenty of shade and quiet time, preferably near one of the parks. Snotty people tend to shy away from parks because there is no valet parking service. Speaking of, Maymont and Chimberazo Parks are kick-ass as well. Again, very de-snottified.
4) Disney World, despite it's creepy corporate undertones, it's a happy friggin place for me. Long walks, places to veg fantasies, fake mock-ups of exotic countries, science, nature, zen buddhism, peace and love. You want it, you got it.
5) France. Yes. France. For three years, I had given up on France, since it wasn't a fave with my then-number-one traveling partner. France is beautiful. And like anything in life worth having, it does take a lot of getting used to, a lot of effort, like a high-maintenance man. France doesn't run to you, arms outstretched, full of promises it doesn't intend to keep. France isn't easy, cheap, or codependent. France is "f*ck you, I don't care until you show me you can hang with me." Americans are not French-o-philes by nature, and the French are so xenophobic you might as well be damn fluent in the language and culture before you visit (I learned that the hard way), but once you've lounged on the beaches of Nice, or sat chatting with fellow travelers with the Eiffel Tower as your backdrop, or tiptoed through the church at Mont San Michel, you'll swear it was all worth the work. And the art is magnificant. DaVinci, Rodin, Piccasso, Stein, Henry Miller- you feel their presence. And you will have a buddy for life in France, that unlike a high-maintenance man, will never drain on you or stress you out, but like a skillful lover will boost you, embrace you, inspire you. (Whew. Anyone got a hose?)

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