This last Christmas I was blessed to be able to fly down from Michigan to Georgia to spend Christmas with my sister and her family in Atlanta. I absolutely love this. My sister and her husband are students, and they have two bright-eyed little girls. One was born a true sanguine princess, destined to be adored; while the other, after my own heart, was born a rosy phlegmatic with a slower, but exciting perspective on life. I love them both so immensely. As such, I’m only able to see them one or twice a year, and at 2 and 5, respectively, that’s a lot of missed time.
My time down there was splendid, and I drank in every moment with ease and joy like a fine wine. The final day, in particular, my brother-in-law gave his consent to watch the girls while my sister and I took a haphazard tour of Atlanta. On the way out, I indulged my inexplicable of of bananas and grabbed a bunch — “Rations!” I explained to my sister. We purchased day-passes for the metro and made our way into the city, our minds set on adventure, and my cargo pockets bulging with my potassium enriched rations.