I'm sitting in a beautiful little home office courtesy of Patrick's boss and his wife, and just though I'd give a quite update on the Santo Jorge/Las Vegas goings on. The weather is beautiful and the trip has been fantastic. We've eaten some great food, and had a lot of fun with Paddy's coworkers.
I'm just now remembering that I forgot to take a picture of this absolutely hideous piece of, well, art?, that was in our hotel room-- not once, mind you, but twice. The exact same painting hanging in two different places in the room. Ha!
Last night we saw a truly mediocre-bordering-truly-bad rendition of 42nd Street at Tuacahn-- the company and the beautiful surroundings made up for the performance, though. (Have hotpants, Wendy? Even for a game of shuffleboard? Neither do I. Some funny memories, anyway.)
While the person I am married to has attended his work meetings, I have had a glorious time shopping, exploring, and relaxing. I blasted my way through a thoroughly engaging book, and couldn't have enjoyed myself more. Which brings me to my next thought...
I spent the majority of the day in the Santa Clara library, which just so happens to be beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the beautifully stark landscape of southern Utah. I love the library. I wonder sometimes why I didn't structure my life more carefully so I'd end up there more often. I love that it is brightly lit and full of books and comfortable chairs. I love that it is quiet. I love that no one thought it was weird that I sat curled up in a chair, moving only when my legs cramped beneath me. I would love to wander around through the dusty shelves. Occasionally I wonder why I didn't choose to surround myself with this all the time. I am quite certain I would have been happy and content.
No one there would yell at me over whether or not a person has the right to choose how to die. (Amazing, my job. To satisfy your curiosity without violating HIPAA privacy laws, let me say that it didn't involve a patient, or other employees, or any family members. Oh, and also apparently I lie. And smirk. Remind me that I like my job.)
I suppose the library would have been a good fit. But I would have found myself researching child abuse and terminal illnesses. I would have missed my interaction with my bright and talented clients who struggle with substance abuse. I suppose the cheesy phrase from my undergrad really is true. Social work is a calling, and unfortunately not even the draw of smell of a new book can pull me away for long.