Well, I had a wonderful day in Ann Arbor yesterday, clearing out the house and then hanging out with Diane. We saw La Vie En Rose, a French film about the life of Edith Piaf, which was just wonderful. Dawned on me as I was driving home that it was the first trip I'd made down there that felt like me coming as a visitor, not as a resident or property owner, and it felt ok. I enjoyed my day out of town, but I was happy to hop on the freeway and return to Lansing at the end of the evening.

On the way home, as I was ruminating about the unexpected and completely delightful turns my life has been taking recently, I had a strange realization. For some reason, one of the most unexpected things (barring accident or disaster or something) I can ever imagine happening to me - the most unlike "me" thing - seems to be going on for me:

I don't want to go anywhere.

I mean, seriously. Does this sound like me? I define the term "ants in her pants." But here it is, mid-July, and for the second summer in a row, we've not taken a single vacation-like trip. Not one. We haven't even been to Mackinac yet this year (I thought for sure we'd do that first thing this summer), and as time goes on, it becomes increasingly apparent that we really aren't going anywhere. And oddly enough, that's just fine by me.

This may be the first time in my entire life that I can remember spending a vacation being content to stay put. The whole point of summers off is to have vacations, and the whole point of vacations is to go places, isn't it? So why am I all of a sudden content with sitting on my back deck? (Well. It is an awfully pleasant deck, but still.) I really don't know what to make of this weird mindset that's engulfed me (Middle-aged contentment? Personality breakdown? Senility?) . . . but I must say, I am really enjoying myself at the moment, so it's obviously a Good Thing, however out of left field it seems to be to me . . .