Oars

In January a tree fell on our pink Toyota. In March, I gave 2 month’s notice. In May, my boyfriend and I left for a 3 month road trip. In August, we returned. Our cat squeaked.

I’m not impulsive. I had collapsed my family’s ears with talk of leaving the finance field. I was riding down the river with two canoes, a foot in each one. Yammering on about the inferior green canoe, but because the other canoe was unpainted, I couldn’t get in. I collected a dozen life vests, emergency rations for 37 people, and two sets of oars. I had enough reading material for a 6 month long emergency bonfire, should it be necessary. My head had sprouted a few grey antennae. Yet, my waffling continued “what color would compliment the river, would best represent the boat’s position in the world…should I use eco-paint?”

The attack tree started the serious search for a camper van; the van developed the trip itinerary; and the itinerary wrote my resignation letter. Or that’s the shortest explanation I can come up with. It was a slow brew, it was just time.

I am now in the unpainted boat. I have some color swatches and a small paintbrush, but it’s no hurry. The canoe floats just fine.