Meet me by the sea

In an effort to stave off what promises to be a spectacular nervous breakdown, I'm taking my first solo vacation ever this weekend. My mother is quite certain that I am either suicidal, or will succumb to the charms of a roofie-bearing pirate who will have his way with me and then toss me into the sea. Whether or not I will be chopped up into tiny pieces first has not been decided.

Either way, I'm going to Montauk, firstly because it's super-cheap this time of year, and secondly, because I can walk around with an affected British accent and say things like, Darling, I simply HAD to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city and dash off to the Hamptons. The sea air always does WONDERS for my sense of clarity. I'm afraid the boyfriend might suspect me of planning a romantic rendezvous with someone who is not him. Lucky for him, I'm having a hot and heavy love affair with my new laptop, the only object of lust who will be joining me on my trip.

So the plan is this: eat, drink, write, lounge, figure out my life. I've kind of written the movie version of my weekend. There is a dashing stranger with a mysterious past who tries to woo me and fails because I remember my love back home. There is the crusty old man at the neighborhood bar who is wiser than anyone gives him credit for. He says one statement, totally unrelated to me, that changes my life forever. There is that moment where I, wrapped in a blanket and gazing out to sea, suddenly figure out the answer. For some reason I cannot stop thinking about Sandra Bullock, who I hate, in Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, even though I thought the book was much better.