School ended. I really want to do a cutsey little synopsis of the time spent getting an A in my cooking class vs. time spent getting an A in a nutrition class (sooooo not what I was anticipating) and how Running Jamie was a huge ray of sunshine (she likes to run, she likes to eat, she shared the driving burden) and how mid-semester surgery isn't completely terrible (except for the broccoli). But right now I don't have the time for that.
I finished classes on Thursday and have had the kids since then, trying to keep them entertained, feed them and squeeze in my runs while they sleep (woot!) This morning, however, I'm taking a bit of a turn from my pedestrian life.
I'm going to Chicago.
Several years ago, Mrs. Diggs and I decided we needed a girls-only trip. It was a cute fantasy at the time. Our kids were young and my future was in question (still in the marriage, though in definite doubt of its stability). We touched on the subject a couple of times since, but with me in school and living on student loans and uncanny good fortune, I figured we were a few years away from our fabled escape.
But on my 40th birthday, she gave me a vibrant purse. Tucked into the purse (which included the cutest pink flask!) was a card. And in that card was a poem. And that poem promised a trip to Chicago. I was blown away.
A week or so later, she hounded me for scheduling conflicts and before I knew it, a plane ticket had my name on it. And the date on that ticket is today's.
So I guess I need to wash of this morning's run, double check my suitcase and make muffins (it's Sunday, after all), take the kids to Mr. X's place and hop on a plane. Three days with one of my very favorite people promises to be riddled with ridiculosity.
Or maybe we'll just nap.