My apologies for the delay in delivering Part 2 for your reading pleasure. I’m in the middle of painting the living room, and it has looked like this for much too long,
Several family members (including myself) were getting upset by the appearance. (I’d like to get this painting project completed before school starts. My husband would like it finished yesterday.) So I’ve been spending my “extra” time working on that project, while my garden goes to pot. (See gigantic cucumbers below.)
(Painting is a lot like childbirth. You go through the ordeal of painting a room, and you never! want to do it again. Until time erodes the memory of how horrific it was, and then you do want to do it again.
Once you start another painting project, it’s fun, kinda exciting—only slightly painful—for the first 45 minutes… just like labor (at least my labors). But after 5 hours of progressively harder labor and you’ve only dilated 1cm, you start to get a “little” discouraged. That’s the phase I’m in—inching forward at a snail’s pace. Is this too graphic a description? I think I’ve been smelling a bit too many paint fumes and have lost my sense of blog etiquette. But I digress….)
I came very close to not publishing Part 2 of the Introvert at Bastille Day for two reasons: 1. It has very little to do with extroverts/introverts. 2. I did not want to take precious painting time to edit a piece that is the closest thing to written rambling that I’ve ever done. But I promised you three parts, so I will deliver… plus I already had Part 2 fully written anyway. Hopefully you can forgive the grammatical errors due to editing during the late hours of the night after a rather exhausting day and one too many whiffs of the paint can.
So here we are – Fortville, Indiana! Bastille Day has come and gone, and I’ve spent the overwhelming majority of the past two days sitting on my tush, pecking away at the laptop, living a life of luxury. Actually, I’m getting really tired of all this sitting. I will be glad to head home tomorrow after four days of lots of sitting and actually chase my kids around the house.
Wait…. when I left off in my last post, you expected me to be chasing my two cherubs around Daniel’s boss’ house for a whole week. Well, Daniel and I did some extrovert-introvert negotiating. (This has been a marriage saver over the past 11 years. I think we’re getting pretty good at it… hopefully.) I told Daniel I was more willing—although still filled with much reservation—to go to Bastille Day if we shortened the stay to four days, instead of seven. Much to my consternation, that point of negotiation caused no kickback from Daniel. When my mother-in-law offered to keep our kids while we were away, I knew I had no other excuses left in my arsenal, so it was time to make the plans, channel my inner-extrovert, and try to be as cheerful as possible about the whole (or)deal all while biting my fingernails to bits.
We left bright and early Saturday morning. I fitfully slept through some of the morning due to a very! early morning long-run and late night packing. When I finally joined the land of the living, I opened up my bag of Vacation Bible School supplies and spent much of the car ride cutting out felt hearts and paper hands.
I did take my turn behind the wheel for two hours to give Daniel a little snooze, and it was during my driving time that I began to notice signs for Wendy’s at almost every single exit on Route 70. Now, when you like Frostys like I do and you’re getting really hungry like I was, it doesn’t take too many Wendy’s signs until you need a Frosty… like positively need one. I’ve kept my Frosty-love-affair top secret from Daniel for 15 years because I was quite certain he would disapprove of, as well as not truly understand, this fast-food addiction. (Actually I’ve dropped subtle hints along the way…. like asking him to bring me back a Frosty when he goes out to eat without me. But alas… he is a man, and I was too subtle.) So when I divulged to him that I was searching for an exit with a gas station and a Wendy’s, he was dumbfounded.
“What do you want at Wendy’s?” he asked me. Seriously?…. I thought to myself. Do you not know what one gets at Wendy’s? What else IS there to get at Wendy’s other than Frostys. But knowing Daniel’s limited experience with fast food over the course of his life, I kept my sarcasm in check. “Have you ever even had a Frosty?” I asked him instead. “Maybe… I can’t remember,” was his response as we pulled into the parking lot.
Still filled with amazement that a 34 year old (actually he was two days shy of 34 at the time), American man does not remember ever having ingested a Frosty, I ordered mine and found the condiments/silverware. (Daniel had told me not to order anything for him.) I picked up a spoon, and started to walk away. “Don’t you need a straw with that?” Daniel asks. Frosty Virgin.
(Alright, to be perfectly honest, I think Daniel was just as amazed at me because me giving into a fast-food craving is almost as rare as Daniel ingesting fast food. But I figured if I was going to be dragged 1/4 of the way across the country against my will, I was going to get something out of it…. like a Frosty.)
Daniel did take a few bites of my Frosty, but I could tell he was not overly impressed. That’s ok by me though. I’ll volunteer to drive on the way home too. There are just as many Wendy’s heading east as there were heading west.
And then we were there… fastest 9 hour car ride of my life between sleeping, cutting, driving, eating my Frosty, and NOT having to break up the kids’ fights or tell them 5,000 times to speak louder because I can’t hear them over the road noise.
Welcome to Bastille Day.