On our last night on Hayman Island, it rained.
Sunsets on Hayman island were quite lovely.
I’m mostly speculating here: we missed a large number of them. We were so jet lagged that we were often in our room by dusk, impatiently watching the last bit of light disappear from the sky so we could justifiably crawl into bed.
I don’t know if two childless adults have ever cheered the arrival of 7:30pm as much as we.
Last week, I had my regular MRI check-up, and once again, by the grace of science and luck and the universe, it looked good. “Unremarkable” is the technical term that radiologists use. It’s one of the few times in your life that hearing that is just … nice.
So don’t have to get another MRI for a whole year now, but as I stare at those images my the inside of my head, I realize my fascination with the human brain remains. Looking at the cross section of grey matter, at the organ that makes me me, I find myself amazed at how we all function.
Years ago, my friend Rachel was telling me a story about her then-boyfriend (and now husband) Adam. I can’t quite remember what it was about, but she paused halfway through and said, ”Do you ever have those moments where you look at someone and realize how much you love them? Well, I had one of those moments.”
I, of course, knew exactly what she meant.
Please don’t read this post, okay? No, no, it’s not because I talk about how crazy you are. Sheesh, mom … Yes, I know you aren’t crazy. Yes, I realize I make you out to be crazier than you actually are on the blog. The reason I don’t want you to read this post is because it’s about your Mother’s Day gift. We don’t want to ruin the surprise, right? Of course we don’t.
So go browse some other site, okay? Like Facebook! You love Facebook.
Most of you, regardless of whether you live in the states, have probably heard about the bombings that occurred at the Boston Marathon today, which killed three people, and injured more than a hundred others, some of them critically. Those who were there describe a horrific scene of smoke and screaming and severed limbs.
I had been out to lunch – literally – when it happened. I was catching up with a friend. She filled me in on all the happenings in her life and her family, and she let me devote waay too much of our conversation to all sorts of things that were weighing on me. It was a good talk, and a reminder that I need to spend more time with the people I love.
Some things, particularly those that are sad or difficult or heartbreaking, are best heard when you’re at home.
Rand and I got back into town yesterday afternoon, and felt that peculiar brand of jetlag that so rarely afflicts those who live on the west coast of the U.S.; after nearly two weeks in Australia, our internal clocks were running behind.
After a painfully long flight from Sydney, and another two-hour hop from LAX to home, I had no idea what time it was when we landed. The numbers on the clock were meaningless, bearing no relation to me. I wandered around the house in a daze, exhausted, but too wired to actually nap. For a while, I just curled up on our bed, shivering from jetlag and somewhat delirious, and Rand started piling all manner of blankets and sweatshirts on top of me.
I had hoped that I would be able to get my post about our visit to the townships of Cape Town up before we left for Australia, but that didn’t pan out. I was rushed for time, and found that I just couldn’t give the tour the attention that it deserved. Rather than draft a post that didn’t do the experience justice, I figured I’d wait until I got home.
Also, between researching the history of Apartheid in South Africa, and Wednesday’s post about the epidemic of rape that’s currently plaguing the country, I needed to switch gears. To talk about something lighthearted, if only for a little bit.
So I want to tell you about how I freaked out and was convinced that I sat in pee last week in a Dublin cab.