In the interest of being completely honest, up until last weekend I had never hiked before, nor did I really understand what “hiking” actually meant. When my boyfriend and I planned a weekend trip to Maine, we included a hike as a central part of the itinerary – the highlight, if you will. Naively, I figured that would mean we’d be walking in the woods a little, maybe it would get a little steep at some points, maybe it would take two hours? Newsflash, CMQ – apparently that’s not hiking.
I feel like this year especially, everyone I know has plans to go (or already went) to a farm/orchard to do cutesy fall things like apple picking, pumpkin picking, or corn-mazing. Perhaps it’s cliché then that last Sunday the boyfriend and I stopped at a small (tiny!) farm in Canton to do all those things? If so, then I have to confess I really am a fan of the occasional cliché. After all, there’s a reason things catch on.
Honestly if you’re ever driving on I-93 near the Canton exit at this time of year, this little place is right off the highway and so cute. Totally worth a quick (or long!) stop.
I’m an ocean person. I’m an ocean person in the die-hard, beach chairs in my car long past the point of sensibility, swimming in September seems like a great idea, sigh of relief when my toes hit a beach kind of way. If I somehow found a career that let me spend the rest of my life being around the water, it would be a perfect match. I’d sign on the dotted line for that, no questions asked. I revel in waves and salt and dunes. My favorite smell is found when you bury your face in a towel after a long day: a combination of ocean, sunscreen, and the way it smells when fabric has been dried by the sun. So far, I have yet to reveal the weird part of this scenario.
Here it is: I date a mountain person. As in, my boyfriend is someone who describes his dream vacation home as being a beautiful cabin up north. He likes fresh powder and sunsets seen through pine-dotted peaks. Being a few yards away from a moose in Jackson Hole this December made his day. Seeing his breath swirl into the air in a spiral of chilly fog probably brings a smile to his face, and he doesn’t wear a jacket outside as often as he should.
If a person’s favorite habitat were a measure of their compatibility with another, it would seem like we might be utterly doomed. In my idealistic mind, I always pictured myself with a fellow ocean lover, someone whose stomach flipped over a beautiful sunset/waves picture the way mine does. However, I’ve come to accept that maybe it’s better this way, with us each having a unique preference. He teaches me to love more than I did previously. He challenges me to appreciate different kinds of beauty. Together, we both love the ocean and the mountains and each other. And that’s just perfect.
Editor’s Note: The boyfriend in question has read this post and would like everyone to be reminded of the fact that he does, in fact, enjoy the ocean too. Guess I just got lucky.