When the Weekend Refuses to Follow the Plan

I am a planner.

I make reservations. I buy the tickets. I pack the picnic. I think about timing, parking, food, what we’re wearing, where we’re going next, and probably three contingencies nobody else knows I’ve already considered.

I genuinely enjoy doing it.

There is something deeply satisfying to me about creating an experience for people I love.

But this particular weekend reminded me of something I’m still learning:

You can prepare the experience. You cannot control the experience.

Friday went completely left. Saturday gave me exactly the friendship I needed. And Sunday somehow ended with art, children, paint, a four-year-old photograph recreated, and a bunch of complete strangers collectively losing their minds over a marriage proposal.

Sometimes shit happens.

And sometimes what happens instead is better than whatever you had planned.

Friday: Well…We Tried

Friday was supposed to be Jazz in the Garden.

I had the tickets and the plan. I wanted us there somewhere around 5:50–6:10 because Jazz in the Garden is only two hours long. I wanted enough time to get in, get situated, listen to the music and actually enjoy the evening.

We left about fifteen minutes late and still had to drop off at a sleepover before heading into DC.

Nobody seemed particularly concerned about my timeline.

I was.

Because, again: planner.

We finally made it to the Sculpture Garden around 6:53, scanned our tickets, got inside…

…and were promptly told to evacuate.

A storm was coming.

😂

All that planning just for Mother Nature to say, Girl, go somewhere.

So now we had four adults dressed for Jazz in the Garden, standing in DC with absolutely no jazz to garden to.

Fortunately, I had made a dinner reservation at Boqueria.

I love Boqueria. I’ve been six times since 2021, and there’s something about that restaurant that has always felt like the perfect ending to a day in DC.

My usual location has this atmosphere that reminds me of coming inside on a fall evening after a long day in the city. You transition from something brisk and biting outside into this warm, toasty room filled with amber, yellow and almost autumn-colored lighting.

It feels like somewhere a professional working downtown goes after finally closing the laptop for the day.

Cocktail.

Tapas.

Conversation.

Exhale.

That’s Boqueria to me.

But our reservation was still about 45 minutes away, so I suggested we head toward The Wharf and see what was available there.

DC parking said absolutely not to that plan too.

Eventually we circled back to Boqueria.

And that’s where an already-disorganized evening became uncomfortable.

The restaurant didn’t land with everyone the way it has always landed with me. The waiter became a subject of jokes. The menu and different food choices were scrutinized.

Something I was excited to share became something I felt like I needed to defend.

My feelings were hurt.

I’m not going to pretend they weren’t.

The evening went to hell.

But here’s where I’ve landed:

It was one evening.

It was our first time trying to go out together like that. Maybe another opportunity will present itself. Maybe it won’t.

I’m no longer interested in forcing outcomes either way.

And something my other brother-in-law said deserves acknowledgment too:

He seems happy.

I can see that.

After everything he’s experienced in his own life and relationships, if he’s found someone who makes him happy, I genuinely want that for him.

That doesn’t mean every person connected through family has to become close friends. It doesn’t mean every personality is going to mesh. And it certainly doesn’t mean I have to ignore the things that don’t feel good to me.

Maybe adulthood is learning to hold several truths at once.

I’m glad you’re happy.

That hurt me.

I wish you well.

And I can still decide what works for me.

All of those things can be true.

Apparently, I’m a Repressed Romantic

There’s another layer to all of this that I wasn’t even thinking about at first.

I’ve been reading Song of Solomon in the Bible.

And excuse me???

Why did nobody properly explain to me how ridiculously romantic this book is?

I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever read anything in the Bible that felt this unabashedly romantic.

They’re admiring each other.

Desiring each other.

Speaking beautifully about each other.

She expresses herself.

He expresses himself right back.

And here I am reading the Bible absolutely smitten.

The irony is that I’m realizing I might be a repressed romantic.

😂

Not because I don’t love deeply.

Oh, I LOVE.

But my love has traditionally lived in my behavior much more than my words.

If I love you, I feed you.

I remember things.

I plan things.

I create experiences.

I make sure you’re comfortable.

I think ahead.

I show up.

I take care of you.

My love has always been in how I treat people.

Somewhere along the way, I think I convinced myself that if I loved people well enough, surely they would know.

Song of Solomon has me reconsidering that.

Maybe people deserve to hear what we’re already showing them.

Recently, I saw my brother-in-law’s girlfriend wearing one of those shirts about her man being a king. And I actually love those shirts.

I love seeing women celebrate their partners. I love seeing someone essentially announce:

That’s my person. I think he’s amazing.

That’s beautiful to me.

But I also know I don’t want a version of love where expressing devotion to someone requires repressing yourself. Because repression isn’t peace. Eventually, everything you’re swallowing has to go somewhere.

Sometimes it becomes resentment.

Sometimes distance.

Sometimes it comes exploding out after you’ve convinced yourself for months or years that everything was fine.

That’s not what I want.

I want to learn how to express both sides.

I adore you.

I’m proud of you.

You look good.

I appreciate you.

I choose you.

And:

That hurt.

I disagree.

I need something from you.

This matters to me.

Maybe that’s the kind of romantic I’ve actually been trying to become.

Not someone who loves harder.

Someone who expresses the love she already has.

Saturday: Darth Nouka Kelly to the Rescue

After Friday, Saturday was wonderfully uncomplicated.

I spent the day with one of my closest friends, affectionately known around these parts as Darth Nouka Kelly.

We headed to Old Town Alexandria, walked around the farmers market, wandered, talked, laughed and eventually ended up at her house eating Maryland crabs.

That was basically it.

And it was wonderful.

No grand lesson.

No complicated itinerary.

No trying to rescue an evening.

Just friendship.

There’s something restorative about being around people with whom you don’t have to constantly manage the temperature of the room.

You can talk.

You can disagree.

You can joke.

You can sit there cracking crabs.

You can just be.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Sunday: The Girls Are Back Together

Sunday was for the Hirshhorn.

My daughter and I met up with my best friend, Lady Rhonda of Naboo, and the kids. My son headed to the shop with his father, so we had ourselves a little girls’ museum day.

And we had an extra member of the crew. My BFF’s cousin’s daughter was in town, and we absolutely love when she gets to hang with the girls. They’ve developed such a sweet friendship over the years. Whenever they’re together again, they fall right back into each other like they haven’t missed any time.

Then we realized we had a picture of them together from four years ago.

Obviously, we had to recreate it.

😂

Same friendship.

Same girls.

Just four years taller, older and a little further along in becoming whoever they’re going to be.

Those are the pictures that sneak up on you.

You take the first one because it’s cute.

Four years later, you’re looking at the second one thinking, When exactly did all this growing happen?

Art, a Picnic and Some Paint

We spent time walking through the Hirshhorn looking at the exhibits.

I love art that doesn’t immediately explain itself to me.

Give me something strange.

Give me something beautiful.

Give me something slightly unsettling.

Give me something where I have to stand there for a minute and decide what the hell I’m looking at.

That’s fun to me.

We had also packed a picnic and brought supplies so we could sit outside and paint afterward.

Eventually, we walked from around C Street toward the National Museum of African Art looking for somewhere to settle down.

And then our plans got interrupted again.

Except this time, I’m very glad they did.

Wait…Is Somebody About to Get Engaged?

We were walking toward an area near the museums when a photographer politely stopped us.

They were setting up for a proposal.

He asked us to stay clear of a particular area.

No problem.

We found somewhere else to sit.

There was a couple at a larger table nearby, and I asked if we could join them.

“Sure.”

So now we’re sitting with complete strangers, talking about this proposal like we’re somehow part of the planning committee.

😂

Then another couple started walking through.

I said something like:

“Hey, they’re about to do a proposal.”

The man gave me this look that was basically, Okay…

Then he looked over.

Stopped.

His companion started looking around like, WAIT. WHERE?

I pointed everything out.

“Come over here. You can see it better.”

And just like that, they were invested too.

That’s when I noticed what was happening around us.

People were quietly figuring it out.

They weren’t intruding.

Nobody was trying to get into the photographer’s space.

People just started collecting around the edges.

Waiting.

Watching.

Rooting for two people none of us knew.

Then the couple came walking in.

There was a display with photographs.

Then music.

A saxophone.

A violin.

The whole thing was so beautifully romantic.

We couldn’t hear everything being said from where we were sitting.

But we didn’t need to.

Because suddenly we heard her scream.

She threw her arms into the air.

YES!

Then she fell into him.

And that entire section of the park erupted.

People were cheering.

Clapping.

Yelling congratulations.

Complete strangers were genuinely excited for them.

Eventually, they took their posed pictures and recreated some moments for the photographer. People slowly started dispersing and going back to whatever they had been doing before.

We even got the chance to congratulate them.

And I just sat there thinking:

This is why I love DC.

Maybe the Romantic Wasn’t That Repressed After All

The irony wasn’t lost on me later.

Here I am reading Song of Solomon, thinking about romantic expression and realizing how much love I’ve historically left unspoken…

…and then I accidentally stumble into somebody’s elaborate marriage proposal.

Saxophone.

Violin.

Pictures.

Public declaration.

A woman screaming yes.

An entire park celebrating love.

Of course I ate it up.

😂

Apparently the romantic in me has been alive and well this entire time.

She just hasn’t always had the vocabulary.

Maybe that’s changing.

This Is the DMV I Love

People talk about DC like it’s just politics, traffic and people rushing somewhere important.

That’s not the DC I know.

I know museums.

Music.

Food.

History.

Farmers markets.

People sitting outside painting.

Conversations with strangers.

Kids growing up beside one another.

People sharing tables.

And apparently random crowds assembling to cheer when somebody gets engaged.

I love this place.

And this weekend reminded me that life here—really, life anywhere—isn’t beautiful because everything follows the itinerary.

It’s beautiful because it doesn’t.

Friday taught me that I can’t manufacture the perfect evening just because I planned one.

Saturday reminded me how good uncomplicated friendship feels.

Sunday reminded me that sometimes the interruption is the experience.

I’m still going to plan.

Please.

Let’s not get ridiculous.

😂

I’m still making the reservation.

I’m still buying the tickets.

I’m still packing the picnic.

I’m still researching where we’re going afterward.

I’m still going to introduce people to food, music, museums and places that I love.

That’s part of how I love people.

But I’m learning to loosen my grip on what happens after I create the opportunity.

People get to be themselves.

I get to be myself.

And sometimes those things fit beautifully.

Sometimes they don’t.

Either way, I don’t have to lose myself trying to make everything work.

I can love enthusiastically.

Speak more openly.

Protect my peace.

Wish people happiness.

Let relationships become what they’re going to become.

And keep moving toward the things that make me feel alive.

Because sometimes Jazz in the Garden gets rained out.

And two days later, you sit down to paint and accidentally witness somebody say yes to forever.

I’ll take the whole weekend.