When Common Sense Took a Vacation
Laura Finney
8/4/2026
I'm not entirely sure what happened aboard the ferry from Woods Hole to Martha's Vineyard, but I'm reasonably certain it involved crossing through a small tear in the fabric of reality. Either that or the Steamship Authority has quietly installed an Inhibition Removal System somewhere below the passenger deck. It's the only plausible explanation.
In Maryland I'm a sensible, risk-averse woman with Alpha-gal Syndrome who won't even trust her own grill because it once fraternized with steak. Then I board the ferry and, less than an hour later, I'm staring at a frying pan that's been cooking bacon since the Eisenhower administration thinking, Eh... it'll probably be fine.
Who is this Vineyard Me? Other than, perhaps, a total idiot.
In Maryland, I have built myself a small, hermetically sealed, slightly unhinged—but entirely reasonable—existence. I am the mayor of a two-person town I call No Mam. Population: me and my highly supportive husband, who now regards chicken as less of a protein and more of an obligation. It works. It is safe. It is also, if I'm honest, about as much fun as flossing.
And when I say I have my Maryland life buttoned up, I mean it is as sterile as an operating suite. No dining out. All new pots, pans, and appliances. Don't come at me with your “I’ll bring an appetizer” and expect me to look anything other than horrified.
Maryland Me is so on top of this that I sometimes begin to wonder whether perhaps Alpha-gal has simply packed up and left. Months go by without so much as a whisper of a reaction, and I occasionally entertain the fantasy that it quietly slipped out of my body one night, wished me well, and wandered off to ruin someone else's relationship with cheeseburgers.
It's not a theory I've been eager to test. It is, however, a lovely one. Which brings us to Vineyard Me.
Vineyard Me has apparently never met Maryland Me.
Vineyard Me accepts dinner invitations without conducting what can only be described as a forensic investigation of the cookware. Vineyard Me hears, "We rinsed the pan," and thinks, Well, that's practically sterilization. Vineyard Me mistakes optimism for science and socializing for an acceptable substitute for good judgment.
Maryland Me watches this happen with the detached horror of someone observing a nature documentary.
"No... don't go near the cast iron..."
"She's going to touch the grill..."
"Oh dear God... she's saying yes to brunch."
And remember that theory? That sweet, innocent, hopelessly optimistic theory that perhaps I'd somehow gotten over Alpha-gal? Well. My reckless new Vineyard lifestyle has settled that burning question – with a burning answer. As it turns out, the answer comes with a mildly constricted throat, itchy hands, and the unmistakable sensation that I've been chewing on molten lava.
It began as what I assumed was a sore throat before blossoming into my old familiar friend, Anaphylactic Shock Jr. Not the full, dramatic, ambulance-worthy version. More like the off-Broadway production. All of the discomfort with only a fraction of the excitement.
Then there are the itchies. Not ordinary itchies. These seem to originate somewhere deep within my soul before working their way outward. Scratching the surface feels about as effective as trying to put out a house fire with a damp cotton ball.
The other day I watched my dog wiggling ecstatically on his back across a rough sisal rug and caught myself thinking, I bet that feels absolutely magnificent. That's probably not a thought healthy people have.
I have to ask. Where is this laid back Vineyard me coming from? Scientists call it "vacation brain." By the way, I made that up. I seriously doubt that there has been an actual study by actual scientists regarding the curious phenomenon in which otherwise intelligent adults make decisions they'd never make at home. It explains why buttoned up tea totalers happily order the rum drink at the airport bar at 7am, sensible people, attached only by a bungee cord, hurl themselves off a bridge, and why I look at a frying pan that's been sautéing ground beef since 1957 and think, What's the worst that could happen?
Have I traded common sense and self-preservation for lunch with friends? Apparently, yes. And here's the funny—though perhaps not entirely surprising—part. I wouldn't change it. Not entirely.
This morning my first thought wasn't, I really need to go back to my hyper-vigilant, safety-first existence. It was, Well... if I'm going out to lunch again today, I should probably start the morning with an antihistamine. Which, I realize, is not the healthiest conclusion one hopes to reach.
In fact, writing those words down has made something abundantly clear. I haven't just drifted off course. I've packed a picnic, waved cheerfully at common sense from the shore, and sailed merrily into the Sea of Questionable Decisions. Perhaps it's time for a slight course correction.
Not all the way back to the hermetically sealed laboratory that is Maryland Me. I still want the dinners, the laughter, and the spontaneous invitations that make summer on the Vineyard so magical.
But maybe Maryland Me and Vineyard Me should find some middle ground. Somewhere that includes friends, food, and at least a modicum of common sense.
And if you happen to find yourself on the ferry from Woods Hole to Martha's Vineyard, well, don't say I didn't warn you.