Having been accused of having a “lyrical” writing style because of my last post (about the glorious dearth of big-city noise pollution on Prince Edward Island), I thought I should also make it clear that, as my husband informed me last night: I can be funny, when I put my mind to it. That’s what he said: “You can be funny, when you put your mind to it.” I think that means I’m not funny, except inadvertently, and that’s something else entirely.

My bff also tried to console me, telling me that even Virginia Woolf and Hilary Mantel have had to contend, at points, with accusations of lyricism in their writing; this would be more convincing a sop to my wounded feelings if I possessed even 1/1000th of the talent of either of these world-shaking ladies’ little toes. As it is, all I’ve got is cheap laptop and a resentment, so get ready.

Actually, I’m not really feeling either very hilarious or punchy; in fact, I’m the very embodiment of the sort of good-time feeling that results in my walking about wearing a huge, silly grin that can’t be dialed back, no matter how much my cramped and pinched fellow city-dwellers ignore me, look suspicious or disbelieving, or seem embarrassed (for me).

You see, 17 years ago this week-ish, my now-husband and I met and immediately got together–as you do when you’re still in your 20s and think, “Hey, I’ll be out of this hellhole in a year’s time, I may as well have some fun now.” It’s all very romantic, of course; but it’s also been years and years of silly, fun times too.

Last week on the island was no exception; the flip side to my countryside physical and spiritual renewal included windblown selfies, French fries out of a freezer bag for lunch, pulling my mother-in-law’s dog out of the ditches he so ingloriously insisted on rolling around in, picking up said dog’s poo, watching Cathy Jones lose her damn mind at the Victoria Playhouse, staying up very late one night weeping uncontrollably over Edith Pargeter’s The Heaven Tree, and the fog-inspired return of my white-girl afro. For all the profundity and dignity, my week away–like these 17 years with my darling–was a blessed counterweight of sniffling, giggling, and undignified joy in life.