At some point in the past few months (keeping dates ambiguous), my husband and I celebrated our 10th anniversary. I had an absolute blast on our trip to Nashville.
That blast was in no small part due to the fact that my husband planned this trip for me. Well, he did almost all the planning; I bought the tickets because he didn’t know which tour(s) to book.
That’s right, folks: we got the VIP tour… to Andrew Jackson’s house.
If you know me even passingly, you’ve probably seen my reviews of (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9) 10 books about him, his cronies, his events, and his enemies on my blog (more on Goodreads, more I’ve read but not reviewed). I’ve tricked a couple of you into beta reading a literal fanfic about him. I’ve had visiting his mansion on my bucket list since high school, and now – now – my dear beloved presented me with an opportunity and trip so amazing that I LITERALLY STILL CAN’T HANDLE RETURNING TO NORMAL LIFE.
I got to walk in that house and, because I did the VIP tour, I was allowed to take pictures inside. Not only that, but I met other people who were just as die hard as myself! I can’t tell you how amazing it is to be in a group of people all jittering like lunatics for the sake of relieving their historical nerd tension.
Omg this is where he once slept:
Omg his earthly remains are under this thing somewhere:
And, my friends, we’re not done. All of the above were events drowning in pure greatness and joy. All of the above were enough, by themselves, to make a 10th-anniversary-life-dream come true.
But then, my life peaked. Everything is downhill from here. There is literally nothing I can think of that can top this:
I ATE A SNOWCONE ON ANDREW JACKSON’S LAWN.
5/5 Discoball Snowcones