This was the kind of weekend I simultaneously love and hate. My lonely side loved the out-and-about nature of it, the hours of intense with-people time, the train-to-the-cab-to-the-train-ness of it.
The side of me that is desperately in need of recharging, who calculates right down to the enth degree exactly what all this people time takes from me, hated this weekend.
And so I wash up on the shore of a Monday morning torn about how to answer that age-old office question, “How was your weekend?” I truly believe that the arc of my life story will be the search for the perfect balance of productive and lazy, of social and hermit-like, of I hate people and I thrive on people.
After a girly few hours in the salon on Saturday morning, I walked by Farrugut Square to watch Batala’s rehearsal in the park.
On Saturday afternoon, I met Dr. David, a college friend in town for a conference, and we hopped a cab down to the World War II memorial. It’s a tough memorial for me to get close to — it feels remote and hard and doesn’t seem to me to capture the spirit of the men and women who served in that war.
Regardless, David indulged me while I took a bunch of photos…
…and then we strolled down to see Mr. Lincoln.
I was not the only one feeling the love for Old Abe on Saturday afternoon…
On Sunday, I took my whiskey-weary soul out to Virginia to visit friends and their newly-expanded family — a three-year-old son and five-month-old twins. There are no photos of this, as I was, essentially, a mercenary, a hired set of hands in this all-out war between those who still pee in their pants and those who do not.
For what it’s worth, those who do not won this round.
And now, onward to Tuesday.