Weekends are moveable feasts for me, working in the hospitality industry. For the last six months or so, every Tuesday and Wednesday have been my respective Saturdays and Sundays. It was nice to grocery shop when there wasn’t a crowd around the red-ticketed clearance sections, the checkout cashier and the turning lanes both empty save for a car or two. It was a nice routine while it lasted, a steady stream of relaxing days spent with chores and without Nolan (who would work on the days I had off).
But weekdays are pointless when you want to make plans. No one was ever doing anything, everyone was always busy, except for Murphy of course. It got boring–quick.
I’m in a transitional period with my job, going from sales into the administration department (more steady pay, more growth with the company), and so I have had most of the week since Thursday off. I finally got a weekend, a real-life one! To commemorate the occasion, Nolan and I have been spending much-needed time together, enjoying each other again, stealing kisses in the twilight of these San Diego nights, and discovering who we have become this Spring.
On Saturday, we woke up with promise of a good day, and it delivered us well. There is a flea market that I have wanted to go to for a while. Back home, my parents tend to a small table of good from our house, silly trinkets and collected country crafts my mother sells for twenty-five cents on Sundays. I wanted that feeling of home, that welcomeness of collecting unnecessary goods for the sake of having them in the house. We went to the swap meet and spent $37 dollars. We went to the swap meet and looked at old Members Only jackets, old vinyls and books, hand-woven blankets and tattered bibles sitting in a cardboard box. It was exactly what was expected, it was everything it needed to be.
We left with a lemonade (the “ballpark” kind, as Nolan calls it) and a bag of kettle corn. My mouth still burns from a cappuccino I had that morning, and the salt and sour formed a small canker.
For three hours we napped when we got home, and forgot the troubles we create for ourselves.
Living in that same euphoria, the promise of promises, we took the dogs to the beach yesterday. It was a beautiful day (and today’s even more beautiful) and we wanted to share the opportunity for sunlight with Murphy and Elsa (it was her first time). We woke up bleary-eyed and the decision on our minds and left without even a comb through our hair. We packed a bag with granola, a Pendleton beach towel Nolan had gotten me for Christmas, and water for the puppies. We left in twenty minutes and stayed for an hour.
There is something outside of the linear fashion of time when you go to the beach. It’s the crashing waves that meander at their own pace, the sun at high-noon and nothing else to tell time with. It’s the way that both man and beast are enthralled at the crashing sounds, the deep horizon of grey-blue water and the equally cavernous, cloudless grey-blue skies. It’s peaceful and nonthreatening. It’s relaxing and spiritual to live in this golden state.
And you could feel the sensation come over Elsa and Murphy. He ran up and down the shore, chasing gulls and flies that buzzed around the bulbous seaweed. He chased me and I chased him back, but we always came back to Nolan and Elsa, who sat sleepily on the beach towel.
And the rest of the day was spent in relaxed silence, peaceful quiet. A Sunday that I had craved for a while. It reminded me why we moved to far away, it reminded me to stay grateful. I think I needed reminded, anyway.
PS, new recipes coming soon!