Several years ago, my friend Kim joined Lilly, Molly and me for a hike at our local arboretum. I was tired and just wanted to stick to the hiking trail, but of course, the girls wanted to go down the bank of the creek and skip rocks by the water like we usually did.
I would have been content to stay up top and wait for them, but Kim had other plans.
I have this thing where I hate not being able to see my feet.
I first realized this about myself years ago when Randy and I were waiting for at table at a crowded restaurant. The lighting in the place was very low, and the flooring was black. When our name was finally called, we had to pick our way through the other waiting people without stumbling or bumping into anyone.
Although it looks and feels like spring outside, the calendar says we’re still in the heart of winter. Hypothetically at least, that’s the best time of year to tackle all those inside projects that have been relegated to the bottom of my to-do list for longer than I care to remember.
There are bookshelves to decorate, budgets to update and photo albums to work on—but not until I finish filing stacks of old bills and going through other piles of paperwork that I’ve been meaning to organize for years.
Our first February as a married couple, Randy had one rose a day delivered to my desk in the newsroom during the week leading up to Valentine’s Day.
More than two decades and a whole lot of life later, he accidentally did something decidedly less romantic the week before Feb. 14.
“Put lotion on and forgot to put my ring back on!” he texted me one morning. “Feels naked.”