I am a terrible creature of habit.  Even at my laziest, my slothful inactivity tends to fall into an established routine. So I sort of shocked myself by buying a ticket, this morning, to Florida, leaving tomorrow and returning Wednesday evening. (That Jet Blue was offering ten dollar seats definitely spurred my decision.  Still.) It felt good to be reminded that I can, if I so choose, make an impulsive decision, and not feel guilty or beholden to anyone. 

Once, in school, my friend Kimber and I hatched a late-night scheme to drive to from Orlando to Savannah, ambushing my then-roommate Jason when he returned home and convincing him to join us.  We left in my battered white Honda Civic — the only vehicle between us that had the stamina to make the trip — sometime after midnight. 

We arrived at the Savannah visitor’s center too early to do anything, so we napped for an hour or so in my car.  I woke up to drops of sweat, tinted pink from the fire-engine-red dye in my hair, trickling down my face.  After locating coffee, the three of us took the Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil trolley tour and then immediately set about on the drive home, feeling, well, not accomplished, but oddly satisfied.

The spontaneity of fleeing town now, for less than thirty-six hours, feels almost subversive: like I’m not only getting away to somewhere, but with something.  Even if the only thing I’m escaping is my own pattern of behavior.

Plus:  the weather here decidedly sucks, lately.