Returning from the mountains leaves me feeling like a post-mission astronaut.
Unlike the expected, post-vacation blues, once a year, every year, for the past 23 years, re-entry from Papa’s Place has a near-violent effect on my body and psyche.
For the following week, you can find me shucking this space suit. A constant *swallow* and *pop* rehab for the ears. This mountain-time-zoned body wades through streams of molasses and missed emails. I become a reluctant, reengaged member of the WiFi Society.
Because seven days prior, as soon as tires launch over the margins of Texas, the land beyond is my galaxy far, far away. Up there, it’s zero-gravity bliss. Where altitude-drunk flies float slow enough to pet. Where manicures are peeled away by midweek. Where significant conversations with my most significants are had, on a hike with Aspens eavesdropping or on a back porch in pajamas until noon, without distractions, without constraints.
But as soon as our space ship shuttles back into the driveway of our home, I feel the weight of gravity. My eyeballs sit back like kettlebells in my sockets and my cellphone pins my palm like a brick. Ain’t no mountain high enough to muffle the volume of noise and convenience that awaits me once I hike back down.
Is there a way to bring that other-worldly weightlessness back with me?
re: recycling — I’ve harbored low-simmering guilt for my contribution to the global wastebasket á la my daily contact lenses.
👁♻️ Enter: redemption via Bausch + Lomb