My husband and I just got back from Paris on Sunday. We have friends over there, he dj’s, and I like to think I am more French that I am, kind-of like those Irish that only come out on St. Patrick’s Day to drink. I’m not that bad, I promise.

This isn’t our first trip to Paris, but knowing that we wanted to travel elsewhere in the coming years, we planned ahead to make sure this trip would be fantastically-fabulous. We wandered the streets, TJ went from record store to record store, and I strolled from Isabel Marant to Vanessa Bruno, with a day trip spent at the Bon Marche. In the evenings we spent our time eating and drinking with the best of friends — stayed up till early morning, and slept in until late afternoon. It was what every Paris vacation should be; extravagant yet simple.

There is something unreal that happens to your brain when you are not checking an email for a week; not a personal email, not a work email. A true vacation, wherein you transport yourself to another lifestyle, where money doesn’t matter, everyday stresses don’t exist, and the biggest dilemma is which Celine bag to purchase…oh life is good in that moment.

But it’s back to work. Back to bills to pay, dishes to do, deadlines and dilemmas. Back to everyday life. Oh, if only every day could be like a Paris vacation.

A girl can dream right?