I’m a dreamer. This is not to say that I’m goal-oriented or enterprising, words that would far better suit my husband. When I say I’m a dreamer, I mean I can spend five hours of my day researching a weekend getaway to Paris. I’ll get price quotes on flights, rental cars and hotels. I’ll plan what sights I’d like to see, from the Eiffel Tower to the Louvre, and what restaurants I’d like to dine in. (So far, I’m partial to Le Buisson Ardent, I think.)
Keep in mind, I neither have the funds nor the time for a weekend in Paris, but the idea is too appealing to just be an entry in the to-do list of my journal. I come by these tendencies naturally. With a father who spends his free time “window shopping” for classic cars and motorcycles on eBay and Craigslist, I had little choice in the matter.
Quite the opposite, my husband is a planner. While I love to work in the hypothetical, he feels much more comfortable in the actualities and realities — words that make me cringe even as I type them.
When he said, “Let’s go to Ireland,” he meant it. Then he started planning. It all started out much the same as my usual dreaming, with price quotes and tourism research, but then came monthly allotments to the Ireland fund and passport applications. Suddenly he’s spouting something off about leave requests, and I’m struck by the realization that these aren’t dreams — they’re plans!
For the planners out there, dreaming without intent seems frivolous. Similarly, to the dreamer, planning with intent is very intimidating. We much prefer spontaneity and whimsy. So as the Ireland fund approaches the goal amount and the months before my soldier’s return to the states dwindle, the inevitability of this trip is becoming more and more obvious.
And I’m excited, of course — especially because the dates of said trip are still quite tentative, a word I’ve come to adore.