It took about 20 minutes to start feeling the pain, but boy howdy, was it painful, and it kept getting worse. I woke up yesterday morning and really thought I might scream. I mean, it was stabbing, shooting, I-can't-sit-up-on-my-own kind of pain. By 10 a.m. yesterday, Conrad and I were in line at the urgent care clinic, waiting to be seen by a doctor. The urgent care clinic, while not a place I would choose to go to again, is great for people watching. Sitting across from us in the waiting room was the Pollyanna Sunshine family, who talked at great volumes about how happy they were. Really. Mom, Dad and Baby Daughter had some weird need to announce to one another how FUN! it all was, to be in the waiting room! and how COMFORTABLE! these chairs were, aren't they so COMFORTABLE, hon? and how LUCKY! they were to be together in this urgent care clinic! None of them looked sick or injured at all. I couldn't figure it out. I started to think they were planted there by the clinic to psych everyone up about urgent care. Then there was Sherri, a fat, quiet Piggly Wiggley employee (she was wearing her badge), who played a game on her cell phone while her son walked slow laps around the room. Of course, there had to be one meth head, who complained of "just not feeling good" when he checked in. I wanted to suggest to him that smoking lye and acetone might be part of the problem, but watching him scratch at himself like he had fleas and slurp down a 20-ounce Mountain Dew in about as many seconds, I'm not sure he would have understood.

When I finally saw a doctor (a surprisingly awesome, thorough doctor) and got x-rays, I was very relieved to hear that I didn't have any fractures. Doc said there's a slight chance I may have a disc injury, because I'm having pain down my arm, but probably not.

Even so, I have to wear this thing (for the second time this year) and although it's sort of irritating, it actually helps with the pain a great deal:

Yes, that is a blueberry syrup stain on my shirt. What of it? You try eating with this thing on.

The major consequence of this is that I can't really do very much. We were supposed to go over to Achim and Angela's house last night for dinner with them and Ken and Laura, but I slept most of the day and just didn't feel up to it. I tried to work on a painting I've got going, but it hurt too much, so I was resigned to completely passive activities. It's unbelievably frustrating to be injured like this. The weirdest thing that happened, though, is how I responded to the ordeal on Friday night after I got home from the workshop: I just broke down and absolutely bawled.

It wasn't that the pain was so bad; I can handle a lot of pain. It was just that I was so overwhelmingly frustrated about the situation. And it wasn't about who injured me; it was about who didn't.

See, noticeably absent from Friday night's workshop was Julia, my best friend. For the past four years, she's been my default partner on the ground and in the air, my closest confidante (besides Conrad). And she's leaving. Starting in a couple of weeks, she'll be doing an internship in Warm Springs, which is 3 hours away; she doesn't know if she'll be coming back for trapeze classes. It's really far. And even if she does get to come back during the fall semester sometimes, it won't last long. After she graduates from her masters program in December, she's moving. Permanently. To the west coast. Like, 3,000 miles away. She's wanted this for a long time, and I'm so happy for her, but I'm so sad for me. Jace is in New Orleans, now Julia is going to California (or Oregon)--my favorites seem to go away. I'm going to miss her so much.

I called her and told her how upset I was and we talked about it for a while. I know it will be hard on her too, but I think it is harder for the person who is being left behind. The person leaving is so busy, making preparations, planning, running around trying to get everything taken care of. But the person who stays--there's nothing to do. So I sit, unable to do anything, frustrated that my circumstances have so effectively bound me in stillness.

The smell of peaches always reminds me of my grandparents' old farmhouse in Oglethorpe County. Not the fakey-Bath-and-Body-Works peach scent of the mid-90s, but the perfume of a paper bag on the kitchen counter, full of sweet ripe fruit.

Last night I went with my parents to my grandparents' house here in town, the place they moved after they sold the farm. They don't even live there, now. They stay at a old-folks home in Jefferson, which is nice enough, for an old-folks home. The night I went they had peanut butter cookies and barbecue.

Now Grandma and Granddaddy's children are getting ready to sell the house--a sprawling 70s ranch that had carpet in the bathrooms and, get this, kitchen. Grandma knew the only way she was going to convince Granddaddy to move into town was to do something easy, so they bought the house from some friends, wood paneling and all. It's filled with most of the things that were in the house on the farm, with a few of my favorites notably missing (I think they gave away the marble tower maze--the kind you assembled in different configurations and then raced marbles through--when the last grandkid reached high school). Going through it last night, without them there, was very strange. The house is so quiet--with all that carpet, sound is muffled, unnaturally so. Mom wanted me to look at what was there, so I could speak for the things I wanted. My sister will be inheriting the beautiful old mantle clock--a real treasure. Grandma has asked me before what I want. I'm not really sure. I could tell you a few things--the old farm cart, the aforementioned marble maze tower, the hammock, some of their kitschy 60s Christmas ornaments--but those all went when the farm was sold, more than ten years ago. I do have my eye on a gorgeously intricate crocheted tablecloth that was made by one of my ancestors. I unfolded it and just stared, mezmerized by the mandalas and crosses and tesseracts unfolding across it.

As we were leaving, I picked up an ice cream scoop out of Grandma's old countertop spinner, filled with all manner of whisks and peelers and mashers and wirey, weird implements. I don't own one, and it's the perfect piece: the wooden handle is weathered and stripped; there's an extra screw put in to keep the handle from wobbling (no doubt the handiwork of my tinkering and famously frugal Granddaddy); and Grandma was using it before I was born. It's a keeper.

Tonight, I unfolded the flap on a paper bag full of peaches, and the smell reminded me of so many summers out on the farm. If I could have anything, I think I'd ask Grandma to make me a leaf crown (she had a special way to weave them together) like she used to when I was a kid. I think it's the perfect thing to wear while eating a peach.

I made this simple recipe from Martha Stewart's web site: Peaches with Honey Syrup. We ate them with ice cream (served from Grandma's scoop), which is an ultimate combination but next time, I would slice the peaches before serving them. We ended up just picking them up with our fingers and muching into them.

You will need:

On the other hand, I really enjoy everything I'm doing that keeps me busy right now. For instance, me and Conrad went on vacation, and three hours after we got back I jumped on a plane to Chicago for an impromptu trip. Or like the day after my birthday, which ended in a wonderful late night of surprise partying and dancing, we ripped up the carpet in the office and the stairs and replaced them and spent the whole weekend painting and laying floor. Or last week, Conrad left on a three-day fishing trip, and I spent the weekend out of the house at all-day parties with friends. I loved all those things; they were so awesome; but I am in dire need of some veg time. My fantasy is to have the house "finished" (complete all our projects--have I told you we're in the middle of the Apartment Therapy Cure?) and just sit, for several days, in it: reading books, looking out the window, making dinner.

Oh, I'm so wishy-washy. I'm not sure that if that situation presented itself, I wouldn't be itching for more action. What I can say for my life right now is that it is very interesting. I am intrigued by it. I don't know how anyone could possibly be bored, ever, because there are always a thousand things I want to do. Like tonight--I'm thinking about going to an adult beginner gymnastics class (in an effort to move closer to my life list goal of doing a back handspring). Oh, I'm too fascinated by the world for my own good.

 Pish. Off to grab a burrito before I have to be in the office.

...Or would I? In my fantasies, I own this bike: an Electra Cruiser .

On the front handlebars, I would attach the Carrie Basket:

I think the very idea of vacation begets these kinds of musings. Before me lies an unspoiled expanse of time; fantasy and escapism play strongly into my contemplations. On vacation, the self I am is my best self, unburdened by obligation and drudgery. It is the ultimate freedom. Anything is possible.

Can you tell I'm getting giddy?

I've also made a last-minute decision to fly to Chicago next weekend with my friend Melissa. We're going to go see an amazing aerial show on its opening night and then fly back the next day. It seems ridiculously irresponsible to fly halfway across the country for a one-night getaway. Decadent, maybe. That's exactly why I like it.

Isaac Mizrahi once said the ideal vacation would be to fly to Paris, have a cup of espresso at a cafe, and fly home. Maybe that's what's so wonderful about vacation: you take all the wonderful bits of life and distill them into a fleeting visit. No filler or fluff. Just the essence, please.

Cathryn walked into the office a couple of weeks ago, fresh from Europe. I love Cathryn. I could just eat her up. She's completely adorable and pitch-perfectly dressed, all the time. The places she lives are the kinds of places that make you cry when you get home to your house after visiting. The friends she hangs out with have perfect hair, and perfect skin. Her parties are hipper than yours. But she's so sweet, it's impossible to feel anything mean toward her.

Until she showed me the sandals she bought in Greece. I fawned. I photographed. I fell for them. Here are some pictures. Maybe you will look at these and not be blown away by their gorgeousity. But therein lies their genius and charm. They are completely unassuming.

Naturally, I took down the company name and did all I could to track them down. Tragically, they are not available in the U.S., as far as I can tell, and no one from Kokka shoes responded to my e-mail. This makes me very sad. Though it does give me a good excuse to go to Greece.

I've been trying to find a suitably similar sandal. I think these, so far, are my best bet:

 An important feature of the perfect sandal is the buttery softness of the straps, which these seem to have. And for $40, I think I might take a chance at them.

Also, friends, I need this dress. Who wants to buy it for me?

Patiently awaiting gifts,

April 

Me: What is up with these folks marrying such rich people?
Mom: Well, I ain't saying he's a gold digger, but he ain't messin' with no broke nigga.