There are different levels of sparkle. There’s nice shoes, and a fresh hair cut. A coffee date on a rainy morning. A night out on the town. A frivolous, irresponsible, weekend away. A trip around the world. Some ladies days are defined by the glitz –however they choose to define it – while for others it will ebb and flow from their lives.
Me, I’m more of a binge-sparkle kind of gal. Two thirds of the year I am happy in my old jeans, on my soft couch, with my guy on my arm. I’m happy to live simply and healthily and fall into the sweet nothing routine of life in a forever relationship on a limited budget. It’s all cheap bottles of wine and big dinners in and rainy walks with old shoes where you can feel the water seep in and you pull him closer. There is a contented rhythm to the predictability and immense security in the comfort of nesting with one’s best friend. Far from void of gallivanting, for two-thirds of my year adventure is defined by convenience and slips in when appropriate. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
But one-third a year, I need to find my sparkle – however unglamorous it may be. I need raw adventure and lots of it. Long flights or endless car rides, back roads and bare feet, foreign languages and new scenery. I need to binge on the intoxicating high of adventure, sucking in the sweetness of spontaneity and adrenaline. I don’t need diamonds or martinis, no five star hotel and certainly no first class ticket, but I need the rush of exotic and mysterious exploration. If I’m lucky my best friend is at my side and endless possibility at our fingertips.
And then I get my fix and I’m happy back home, in an old sweater beside the fire, hand in hand. Falling asleep against his chest in the down of our bed, and waking up for another comfortable day.