After months of anticipation, last week was finally cruise time, NCL Getaway style.  When it comes to vacations, my husband and I are like small children–“Is it time yet? Are we there yet? It’s not over yet, is it?”  We plan and scheme and anticipate with reckless abandon.

Actually, Nicholas does all the planning: he makes dinner and show reservations for each night, chooses and books the excursions in port, coordinates the travel documents…you get the idea. 

My planning contribution shakes out a little differently. I plan outfits.  Three costume changes a day is quite a packing commitment, especially when there are shoes, handbags, jewelry, hair-flowers, hats, and sparkly eye shadows to consider.  I take this task seriously, and spend excessive amounts of time making lists, and then piles, of all my vacation necessities.

We flew out of Atlanta on a Friday morning, were saddled up next to the Westin pool in Miami by 1pm, and shamelessly blared Bob Marley on our new “Beats” system. Instead of the 2-day mental disconnect process that usually ensues, we were distressed and disconnected from anything unpleasant by the time we ordered our burratta and wood-fired pizza for dinner.  The following morning we embarked on the Norwegian Getaway, headed straight to the pool for the “Sail Away” party and settled in for our 7 days of cruising bliss through the Eastern Caribbean.

To say that we aren’t “go-getters” on vacation is the understatement of the century.  We don’t hike, we certainly don’t jog unless we’re being chased, and while activities like scuba always seem like a good idea, we’ve come to decide that it’s actually much too strenuous for our good time.  We opt for pool/beach leisure, good food, cocktails, and sunscreen.  Rinse and repeat for 7 days with a show here and there, and a bit of night time Craps in the casino. That, my friends, is how we roll.

The down side to all of this vacation chatter is the inevitable dread that settles in about day 4 or 5, when we realize that we’re past the half way point, and have more dirty clothes on the floor than we have clean in the closet.  At this point, I’m done trying to keep our little cabin space picked up, and instead start making piles of dismembered outfits that must be repacked soon.  This is about the time that we start to discuss our next vacation—where, when, and with whom, just to distract us from the ticking clock.  We’re infamous for actually booking our next vacation on the flight/drive home in order to curb the certain depression the strikes upon our return.

Our vacation last week was fantastic, but the difference in the norm was that we didn’t dread the end; we instead said multiple times how long the trip felt (in a good way) and were actually excited to get back home.  It makes a difference when we talk about “going home” and genuinely refer to the house we live in as “home” and Atlanta as “our city.”  I’ve always prescribed to the idea that “home is wherever I’m with you” (insert Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Heroes) but home has never felt so good as it does now in Atlanta.

This is all to say, my ship has come in.  As thankful as I am for an amazing cruise, I’m even more grateful for the contentment of “welcome home.”