This time in two very very short weeks I will be in a plane, somewhere over the South Pacific, wending my way towards Paris. Bingley at my side with my knees curled up in my uncomfortable tiny chair, buzzing with excitement that this dream is finally finally real.
Life is very good mon choux. My hair is shining and my eyes are sparkling. I come home every night smiling. Bingley is working and happy, we have worked out a way to make our home life gel and the three Musketeers are happy too. Sometimes I am still so tired I can barely breathe, but mostly life has taken on the shimmering heat of Spring with a bounce.
Bingley and I, we have sensible grown up plans, but we have happy silly plans too. We laugh a lot. How I had missed that laughter - that silly, nonsensical laughter that bubbles in the centre of your chest and spills out through your veins. I forgot that Bingley was one of the smartest people I ever knew, because we spent so much time where that was not important, worrying about mundanities and such. I forgot the way he smells just out of the shower, and how good it feels to fall asleep each night just touching. Not entwined, I don't like that, but the tiniest bit of skin in contact, letting the electrons buzz between us.
We have quiet dreams and big loud ones too. We are going to trek up to Macchu Picchu and then sail across Titicaca. We are going to do the Annapurna circuit and take pictures exhausted but happy at Everest Base Camp. I am going to learn to ski if it kills me, so that next time we stand on the top of a snow covered wilderness I can chase him down the mountain instead of trudging behind.
And we're going to buy a new shiny car so that we can drive together on the weekends, with our children giggling in the backseat as we find new trees for me to touch and to love and for the Elfling to climb and the Monkey to explore. We are going to buy a house some day, and hand over a cheque with a lot of zeros and then sit in our Ikea furniture and plan about how we're going to fill it with more dreams.
But before all of that, before we sensibly pour the majority of our earnings into clever and money making and asset gaining activities, we are going to get on a plane for Paris and we are going to zoom to the top of the Eiffel Tower on my thirtieth birthday and drink pink champagne as the tower effervesces. And I will pinch myself, in the coolness of that night, even if it is raining and the wind is squalling and I am shivering in my coat, because at that moment, Bingley and I will be literally on top of the world.
13 days, 17 hours, 30 minutes until Paris.