By now there are approximately zero individuals out there wondering what we decided to do with our vacation.

I blame my lack of writing with enough regularity and compelling content to keep you invested; but in larger part I also blame who gives a crap?!

Either way, here I am. Amelia Island, take 4. I’m at my keyboard in the hotel room at a quarter of two on a Monday afternoon with the beach glaring in with an evil, sun drenched eye and cursing at me via waves that seep in from the other side of the sheer curtains in the room that overlooks the dunes. They’re wondering why I’m not out there, why I’m not further aggravating my already red, blistered skin. I’m flipping them both a mental finger. The Mc is off golfing, and I’ve had my fill of being tucked under an umbrella while I alternate jotting thoughts on my yellow tablet, reading a book I wish I was enjoying more than I am, and being pelted with sand during the occasional gust.

I’d rather be writing.

We decided we’d return to Amelia Island for a number of reasons, not the least of which was a call from my doctor asking me to come back for more tests and with it, a particular date/time frame to land said visit smack in the middle of our vacation week.

No matter! I’m determined to make it an adventure in a totally different way. The extended weekend of reckless abandon, of trying out fashion bits I’d never do if I ran the risk of being seen by anyone I know, of listening to new podcasts and singing our way through the drive along with singles from Glee. Don’t judge. Hater.

So, sure, I bought a few pretty dresses that make me feel like a fraud, complete with wedge sandals and some different – for me – accessories. I had my nails painted in a color several friends will be proud of (I’ve already emailed them pictures), but that also are outside my comfort zone. Why not go all the way and don a scarlet letter? Meh. We have delightful intentions that involve dancing, staying up late enough for a whimsical moonlit walk on the beach, and enduring a few ridiculously decadent meals my colon and muffin top will no doubt retaliate for.

Oh, and I’m writing. See also: reckless abandon.

First, let me say how much easier it is to chronicle a vacation when you’re sitting in a hotel room alone, rocking and sucking your thumb, than it is when you’re attached at the hip with your husband-like-boyfriend who is deathly afraid you’re going to fall off your balcony when he looks away for two seconds.

Wow. Okay…where to begin.

We’ll begin with The Mc being allergic to all medicine, including the nail sized sticker that promised to be 10x more effective than Dramamine at inhibiting motion sickness but instead made him as droopy and void of energy as Sleeping Beauty. Which brings us to…

Day 1ish – May 10
…was a loss, with him laying in bed feeling like dookie and me looking on helpless while my pity for him fought a savage battle with my desire to GO! SEE! DO! This is also where my “aunt” shows up a week early. Thanks for that.

Day 2 – May 11
I bounced out of bed like a kid on the first day of summer vacation

The ship was massive, the website and pictures had no means of adequately prepping me. Tell me there’s an ice rink. Tell me there’s a show every night. Tell me there is non-stop food. Tell me there’s a jogging track. Tell me there are two specialty restaurants, an MG parked outside of a pub, a Ben & Jerry’s, a cigar lounge, and a bijillion other things I’ll never remember to tell you about but this: nothing – and I mean nothing – will prepare you for the financial hemorrhaging you’ll endure for the likes of a “water package” ($36 for 10 bottles of Evian delivered to your room), the excursion costs ($14pp for floating mats in Haiti and the like) or the bar tab at the end (um. I don’t even want to tell you. It was more than I used to pay in rent…but I’m getting ahead of myself). The pictures also didn’t feature shots of the bathrooms I was warned about, or the round shower that had me bracing myself mentally to be sucked out of it and into a drive through teller window somewhere in South Dakota.

Day 3 – May 12
When we woke, the ship was pulling into port in Labadee, Haiti. I was so damn excited to see Haiti I can’t even tell you – especially after my grand plan to make friends with Little Dude were foiled by the swine flu and subsequent Mexican port closures.

I’ll grant you that it was beautiful, but what we saw was a sanitized version of what I wanted. A private stretch of the island that belonged to the cruise line, with miles of gorgeous crystal blue waters but no native inhabitants – save the ones with badges that had been sanctioned to hawk their wares in the “market”.

A specialized disappointment, but/and great hours on the shore, an interesting guided walk with a Haitian who educated us about how they (Hatians) have one day a month where the Dominicans allow them on “their” side of the island to pick up the necessities – like you know – rice. To eat and live on. Now THAT is the Haiti I wanted to see.

Day 4 – May 13
I caught a cold somewhere along the way, but a woman cold is a fascinating state of being. No whining was had (what was that? SILENCE): I mountain biked down 2,000 foot of a Jamaican mountain, ate a mango straight from a tree, and cliff jumped. I went snorkeling and gambling and left the blackjack table with a profit in hand. I’m just sayin’. I’m pretty much a stud, and you’re lucky to know me.

Day 5 – May 14
We woke again by some small miracle because I had too much in the casino the night before ifyouknowwhatImean and found ourselves already in port in George Town, Grand Cayman.

This port looked more promising, with even prettier, bluer water in the bay that our behemoth was parked in…and a pirate ship to boot! Traa la and arrrrrrr. From the ship we could see the line of shops on the main drag and we were anxious to embark on our two adventures: a trolley ride with a pirate named Steve from Canada who tugged us along in his Jeep while we kept our appendages in the trailer. Again, we were educated about the island we were invading as part of a swarm of tourists.

The good: Tortouga Rum Cake (hellz yes we brought one home and devoured it) which I fully expected to be a boozy version of a fruit cake and found much to my delight – was nothing like a fruit cake. It was more like an angel food cake soaked in the nectar of the gods…of rum. Also good: the snorkeling.

Days 6 and 7 – May 15 and May 16
Day 6 was supposed to be when I’d make friendly with the turtles, when they’d accept me as one of their own and sweep me off into the big blue ocean and I’d grow flippers and a shell and forget my human ways and live happily ever after.

As we know, the damn swine flu was out to get me…and it got me. This is also where The Mc starts showing symptoms of my cold and where we should have called a Whaaaaaaaaaamblulance for said man cold.

Instead of turtles and perfect health we spent a day at sea, doing a float-by of what should have been our port and keepin’ on, keepin’ on. Interestingly, we also floated by Cuba, and were close enough for me to goob out and take some shots of the skyline we could make out from our balcony. You’d never make it out from the shots I took.

Coming full circle and landing squarely in the same spot we vacated a week prior in Port Canaveral, we opted for the earlier and more laborious of our two exit options: the glamorous carryallyourcrapyourowndamnselfsoyoucangetontheroadat7am.

It was worth the bruises and muscle burn I’d endure to get off the ship and back home to the kitties four hours earlier than planned. One small deviation from our path at customs where a very kind officer (who would later hand us a survey) inspected a wood mask we bought in Haiti for boring (or boooooring – ZING!) parasites let us on our way.

One very tiny last thing I have to add to this boring chronology is this: people prepared us for being seasick – but not LAND sick. For the first four days we were back in Atlanta and attempting to acclimate ourselves to work and checking the mail and caring about bills and doing our hair, we were both woozy as all get out. You’d have thought our eardrums had ruptured for the equilibrium issues we had.

Good GRAVY. Did you actually read all this drivel? Leave a comment so I can send you a gold star via collect mail.

Oh and PS? I did kinda get to see some turtles.

The full set of snaps from the trip can be viewed here.

We ran away to the mountains. We climbed and laughed and yammered and slept in without waking to cats on our heads begging for their breakfast. We reminiced and made plans and were thankful to the universe for putting us where we needed to be when we needed to be there.

We enjoyed watching the colors change and the shift in landscape while more minutes zoomed by.

Has it been so long that we actually dress alike? Close enough.

Happy 3 years, poop.

I’m solar powered.

Getting up at the crack of dawn, bounding out of bed and marking a new record where the span of time between alarm sounding and my tootsies on the sand was less than 5 minutes, then catching the world in the act of starting over brings me a sense of calm and replenishes my spirit. Yesterday and the headaches or heartaches that came with it are nothing in the face of this neon sorbet sky. It’s vapor.

The lapping of the waves on the shell crusted shoreline (coming or going? I can never remember…). the whisper of my footprints being made, the snap of the shutter.

In the presence of salt heavy air may be the only time you’ll catch me spontaneously and uncontrollably happy in the morning without having coffee. I’m sorry you weren’t here to witness the miracle.

What time is it?

The curtains are drawn, and I’m not used to the dark when I sleep – or rather the lack of light when I wake. Some quick visual clue as to what time it might be and where the hell I am would be nice. My back is killing me from sleeping with one pillow instead of two and a half, and there’s no cat on my head.

Mental light bulb –> illuminated. I’m in Asheville, North Carolina and it’s after 8am.

My feet hit the crushed hotel carpet and I try to shake myself awake. The Mc is already up and off to the lobby of the hotel for coffee that’s more expensive and less tasty than the locally grown organic that’s offered in our room. We’re saving that for when we get home; why is beyond me.

At a quarter of 10 I meet Danielle, Sarah and Amanda in the painfully bright lobby and we head to the back of the hotel and the parking lot. The reason we were there had arrived: tall, lean, and glowing.

She’s as amazing and beautiful as she ever was as her long legs pull her across the parking lot towards me. I’ve skipped ahead of the other girls by a few paces out of uncontrollable excitement.

When she’s within earshot she says her stomach hurts and she’s nervous, which she didn’t think she’d be.

The surprise nerves happen to every bride, I think. This isn’t any bride though, it’s our Gwen.

On the two block walk to the pre-determined brunch location in the crisp late September air, we’re all squawking and trying to reassure her with our own agendas. Passers by would only see pink puffs of love popping out of each of our mouths and enveloping her if looking at just the right angle.

~~~~~~~~~

At brunch we sit around an L shaped table and toast her with champagne while Danielle expresses our shared sentiments to Gwen and her eyes well.

I want to push everyone away and nudge her over the wall she’s avoiding that won’t let her sob because I know all too well how cleansing it is to let it out…but I can’t and I don’t and I know that too, is just right.

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The Mc and I drive through the country and out to the farm as the day is slowing and preparing for night. We’re up a dusty dirt road at the top of a hill that’s in a valley of it’s own. Behind us is a wall of earth, to our left is a pond and in front of us is another wall of earth a good distance away that’s glaringly unspeckled by the reflective windows of houses littering it’s side. It’s clean and green and makes my heart happy.

On the right towards the rear of the field where the ceremony will take place there’s an old tractor parked and lost in time. Beyond it a hundred feet, chairs are set up in sides (though no one will take one) between what will later be the vow exchange area and the tractor is a tent under which half the attendees will enjoy dinner. Next to the tractor is a fire pit and as I’m suddenly aware of my bare legs and shoulders, I can’t help but think that later tonight I’m going to mate with the heat it will provide.

The barn is old and weathered and has green growing on some of its perfectly spaced boards. Inside the barn it’s pristine with more tables and service stations and flowers and I take it all in while watching her float around the property for pictures. I have to snap myself back to the paper I’ve been carrying around in my hand that reminds me I came early to help set up and make sure the little things are just right.

It’s hard to focus because I’m at peace and in love with damn near everything I see and I know exactly why she chose this place.

~~~~~~~~~

Greg waits and watches for her while I watch him and the smirk and the glow of a man in love. I squeeze The Mc’s hand a little tighter.

It’s a long walk from the barn to her groom but she’s there in no time at all on her fathers arm in her perfectly draped and clinging-in-all-the-right-places 50′s glamor inspired gown. She’s never looked more amazing and it wouldn’t matter if the sun set right this instant because her glow could light the whole damn state of North Carolina.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ceremony is blanketed by a calm that I can’t explain; nearly any words I’d attempt to use would only step on it.

It’s short and it’s oozing with love and genuine words of thanks and appreciation for parents and family and friends and my eyes are leaking like crazy. I can feel The Mc smiling at the love and laughing at me without looking at him. I’m fixated on eleven years of adoration reaching a milestone and being reborn.

~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the evening is as wonderful as the beginning – with toasts and stories and a love that surrounded those two and could have lifted the barn off it’s footing if emotion had a physical presence and strength…and all I’m leaving you with is not much of anything except my own cherished thoughts of that night in the mountains, the two = one we celebrated and a dreamy hope that I took just a little of their spark with me through emotional osmosis.

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Congratulations on the new journey, my swooning little love birds.

Oh…and pictures are here.