I have a new pair of skis sitting in the corner of my bedroom. I've always wanted to own a pair of skis. For as long as I can remember. To own a pair of skis means you live close to the mountains. And there they are, leaning against the wall, the light reflecting off the goldish-orange bindings.
Is this what I imagined, when I was 10 years old, when all I could think of was the next time I'd be going to Colorado? When I memorized the mile marker on I-70 where you can finally see Pikes Peak? (It's mile 371, in case you're curious. Mile 376 on an extremely clear day. Don't bother to pay to climb the red painted tower along the Interstate there that claims you can see six states -- I'm pretty sure it's not true.)
Life is surreal. I own a pair of skis. I live in Colorado. I see Pikes Peak everyday. Life is good.
Sometimes surreal, like right now. But good.