"If I go there will be trouble, and if I go it will be double." Boy, The Clash hit it right on the head. I'll get to my major indecision momentarily.
In the meantime, I interrupt this regular blog post to report that the remodel is lumbering slowly and painfully forward. The carpet is gone; the hardwood is in place everywhere except the stairs, which will happen tomorrow. Both bathtubs, both toilets, and varying useless accessories are here, but not installed yet. Useless, you ask? Let's see. The supply elbow and the mounting bracket and the shower hoses have all come in, but the actual low-flow handheld showerheads? No. The temperature-adjusting-on-off-handle-thingy for the kids' bath has arrived, but the faucet itself? Nope. The temperature-adjusting-on-off-handle-thingy for the master shower? Uh-uh. All of this is a long way of reporting that we have no bathing facilities for at least two days, possibly until late Monday. Today I showered at a friend's house; thanks, Kelly! Other days, we'll snag one at Anytime Fitness, but because if I did that, I would feel obligated to, you know, work out first, I'm almost glad I'm about to drive to Memphis to pick up the teenagers. Hotel rooms have showers, yo.
Now. About that prophetic Clash song. My husband has been strongly encouraging (read: nagging) me to take a week and go somewhere, anywhere, just for myself, to reset my sanity. He knows that, between spending all day every with Youngest, physically moving all of our belongings from room to room in a seemingly endless circle, and dealing with the noise and anxious decisions accompanying this remodel, I am physically and mentally spent. He said that it was probably the best birthday and anniversary gift he could give me. Time away from everyone and everything. I've been resisting, both because we're hemorrhaging money for this remodel, and because sometimes I'm uncomfortable being alone, with just myself for company.
He told me last night that I could even go back to Italy if I wanted. Italy. That's playing dirty. Hardball. You see, ever since we went to Italy for our anniversary in 2002, I've had a restless, barely containable urge to go back, particularly to the tiny, medieval town of Varenna, on Lake Como. It's an ache: visceral, almost gut-wrenching. Have you ever felt that way about a place? It's the perfect place to go and do nothing for a week. Just me and my writing and my camera. And yet.
And yet, there's that nagging unrest and doubt in my head. Will I enjoy my own company, or will I collapse with loneliness? Should I go back to Italy, which I really think of as our place, at the risk of it becoming my place? Or should I go back to Hawaii, which I also loved, just not as deeply and irresistibly? Can I leave my responsibilities to everyone else here and fulfill my obligations to myself for a change?
