I keep forgetting why I live in rural Arizona. And then I come to visit my daughter in San Diego.
Although it's nice to have a Costco, Target and Cold Stone Creamery less than a half hour away, it also involves hitting the freeway and naval base with five million eighty-three thousand and sixteen drivers who either have converted the mph idea into a new form of mathematics (65 mph actually means 15 mph faster than the car in front of you) or simply have an odd vision deformity that convinces each driver that they must be the only driver on the highway. It also means that houses are three feet four inches apart from each other, traffic lights are every second block, and it's impossible to eat anywhere or anything for under $17.65 per person (plus tax).
Don't get me wrong, I am having a great deal of fun on this trip (to include a minimum of two naps a day, a chance daily to see the Pacific Ocean before sunrise, and all the Kate hugs I can handle) (and when reading my son-in-law's math books, once again realizing that that portion of my brain is still missing).
But I am also looking forward to getting back to slow, dirt roads - a mailbox that 2.85 miles away - my adoring dog - the aloof attitude of my cat - and having two horses chasing me to get carrots out of my back pockets.
And the age thing?
Harmony posted something about being 'almost' thirty. The best year in my entire life (well, so far at least) was when I was thirty-six. I was in the best physical shape of my life (140 lbs., running four + miles a day (we don't need to mention that it was at a 12+ mph pace), lifting weights (at the gym, with three kids, and groceries weekly)), had the best job I've ever had (non-profit health, being responsible for spending an insane amount of money in the community), and (coincidence? I think not) living in paradise.
The best is yet to come, baby - trust me on this one.
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