It’s 6:26 AM on Saturday morning. The car is packed to the gills. (Where did that saying come from? Was there some time in history that fish were used in transport?) I’m already digressing and it’s still the first paragraph.
(Now that I’ve started the second paragraph, digressing is much more appropriate…like there are rules for such. But I digress again. Where the crap is my Adderall?)
Anyway, we’re pulling out of the neighborhood, heading down to Orlando for our annual “Meet the Dyers in Florida” vacation. Otherwise, there would be no sane reason for being awake, caffeinated and semi-functioning before 9 on a weekend morning.
The Dyers are our best friends from California. The kind of friends we’ve actually kept up with, making great efforts to see each other (not “rappelling into venomous snake pit” efforts but the even less reasonable “foregoing a baseball tournament” efforts).
Judging from my husband’s attire, he doesn’t view this trip as a reason to dress up. Once again, he’s donned that free t-shirt he got from Hobbs Sporting Goods at the little league baseball draft last year. For the past hour, I’ve been holding my tongue, suspending the words “seriously? You’re not going to change out of that shirt? The same shirt that you’ve worn four days in a row?” behind a passive (aggressive) smile. I mean, heck, we see the Dyers once a year. No need to get all crazy and iron something. (I MUST remember to hide that shirt.)