Last weekend, I went to Paris. Just saying that feels exotic and a bit irresponsible. I wasn’t there for work. It wasn’t a big, planned vacation or a special occasion. It was spontaneous, and disorganized, and amazing.
Last weekend we embraced a season of life. In this season, I’m healthy. My family is healthy. My partner and I are both employed, with jobs that allow us to take a few days off for an impromptu romantic getaway. We don’t yet have kids and have worked hard to gain some financial security. We are living in a season of unusual flexibility.
And yet, I almost didn’t book the trip. With flights on hold, I couldn’t shake a feeling that I was being rash, irresponsible, immature. We could go to Paris next year, for a longer, better planned trip. This year we should save money, not miss the extra day of work. Paris would be better next year.
Next year. But we don’t know how long our seasons will last. In a week, a month, or a year things will be different. This season will slide by and an impromptu weekend in Paris won’t be in the cards anymore. So I made the leap — I went to Paris. And tomorrow, I’ll discover a new season.