During the wedding we attended in Connecticut last Saturday, after a touch of arm twisting and a lot of gin, we agreed to visit our friend Alex in Brooklyn the following weekend. When we returned to Boston after the wedding, my friend who resides in Manhattan was in town, and she insisted a NYC weekend would be perfect, as well. In the meantime, Matt reached out to his cousin, who lives in Williamsburg, and he further sealed our fate by offering a place to sleep and noting that the dog was welcome.

And while part of me, the part that has been traveling every-other-week for months now, wanted to protest, I knew wanting to stay home and "do laundry" was not a valid excuse to cancel. When I told Matt I wasn't positive about going, he looked at me with a bit of a side eye; which implied all he didn't even have to say: That's really what you want to do?


I knew immediately he was right. We are getting older every day. The number of weekends where we can hit the road after one of Matt's shifts and get into another city at 1AM and sleep on a floor and be okay with that is certainly numbered. Despite not knowing what that number is, I am aware of its existence, and it fuels my spontaneity impulse like nothing else. I once flew across the country to surprise Matty at his door. A four-hour car ride to New York City on a Friday is barely crazy.

So, of course, my arm was twisted sufficiently into taking the wheel, and off we went.
And what a weekend it was.
One that involved beer gardens, Ozzie, a parade float (apparently), good food, great beer, and awesome friends.















I think, sometimes it's important to smell the proverbial roses;
Jump onto the hypothetical (or not) parade float;
Drink a few too many, laugh a little too obnoxiously,
and go somewhere,
anywhere,
on a whim.