Before I launch into today’s blog post, may we please pause first and give a healthy round of applause to Rafa Nadal? And can we please discuss, just for a sec, how adorable it was that he cried after snatching the Open crown from Mr. D? Though Hubby is convinced my soft spot for Rafa stems from his unimpeachable hotness, I know otherwise: It’s because of all those OCD tics of his, and the fact that they belie an intense inner struggle to keep it together mentally. As someone who has been known to freak-out on occasion, I love seeing this champ rise above his anxiety. Okay, and he’s gorge.
Alrighty, onto the topic at hand.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with lighthouses, nor does it even matter. I’m just crazy-gaga about them. I’ve blogged in the past about this meditation / visualization hybrid I’ve concocted, in which I picture myself at the top of a thoroughly tricked-out, World of Interiors-worthy lighthouse, gazing out at the roiling, churning sea. I do a slow 360-degree turn, so I can see every last inch of that vast ocean, and the utter terror contained within. A storm’s a’ brewin, baby, and it’s headed my way…
I don’t know what it says about me that I like to scare myself during meditation, but there you have it.
As I’ve mentioned, we live in Fake Newport. (A mere thumbprint of Real Newport, where I lived from age 10 to nearly 20.) Fittingly, Fake Newport has a really cute harbor, with plenty of boats. Mega-million-dollar yachts, even. The kind you wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Mr. and Mrs. Carter lounging around on.
And when we moved, this summer, a little further up the street in Fake Newport, closer to this really cute harbor, I made a pact with the Wee Lass: Whenever either one of us says, “Lighthouse walk?” to the other, that person must drop what she’s doing, slip on her pleather vegan Birks (me) or Vans (her) and head right out the front door.
We then go on a leisurely stroll that takes us down the boardwalk, through the harbor, along the Hudson River and past a super-adorable, barber pole-stripey, teensy weensy lighthouse.
I can’t tell you how much I’m loving our lighthouse walks. It’s our Mommy / Wee Lass bonding time, and we just chat and chat and chat. We’re in our bubble, solving the world’s problems, getting to know each other a little better and squeezing in a bit of exercise, to boot. Heavenly.
Given all this, you can imagine my dismay this week when an email arrived inviting me to the deeply festive-sounding “The State of Maine Fifth Annual Open Lighthouse Day.” If I would just haul my –s north, I would receive complimentary admission to not one, but 22 landmark lighthouses.
While it pained me to read it (because there’s no way in hell I can get Hubby to hop in the SUV for a massive road jaunt on such short notice), I learned so much from this invitation, chiefly that Maine is considered “The Lighthouse State.” I fully intend to file that intel away for future use.
(Sidebar: Raise your paw if you’ve read the truly wünderbar novel Maine by Courtney Sullivan. Swoon. Loved it. When, post-reading, I completely forced it on my friend Alev, she asked, “What’s it about?” “Several generations of women who totally hate each other,” I replied. “It’s fantastic.”)
For any of you Momoverettes who share my obsession with lighthouses – and live a little closer to all the action than I do – go here and learn how you can partake in this awesome day. But please don’t write and tell me how much fun you had. Sniff sniff.