Twenty-five or so years ago, I took my first grown-up trip
with gal pals. And by grown-up trip I mean one that didn’t involve anyone I was
related to, didn’t involve sharing a motel room with my nana, one that didn’t
involve me sitting in the back seat of the car, surrounded by plants purchased
from nurseries in either Georgia or North Carolina because my mother was
convinced that she could get a dogwood to grow and bloom in Florida and didn’t
involve one single visit to anything related to the Civil War (my pops was –
still is – a big fan of anything related to the War of Northern Aggression. I
had pictures taken aside cannons and forts at every major battle site below the
Mason-Dixon line. Yeah. I know.)
I was 24, considered myself a full-fledged adult and was
anxious to take on the world. One adventure at a time. Which in this case
involved New York City. The trip was my Christmas present from the ‘rents,
which also included a new piece of luggage. It was very nice, but as I recall,
having wheels on suitcases was not yet a “thing” and well, I do not travel
lightly. Never have, never will.
Because you just don’t know when you might need an outfit for an
unexpected occasion.
Anyhoo.
With my fabulous new chapeau – a black felt cowboy-style hat
– ankle boots and black gaucho pants, I was dressed for success. (Hush. Such an
ensemble was the height of fashion in 1988. For me and Dorothy Zbornak. You
probably had a pair, or at least something similar… ahem.) I was ready. For it.
What it was specifically, I do not remember. I’m not sure I even knew at the
time. I was just ready for something. Not just boys, either. Even though they
were important. But that is another story for another time
What I do recall is that we girls spent all our time
together – walking around the city; getting takeout pizza (my stars, I thought
I was all that, doing the carry-out urban food thing); Christmas shopping at
Bloomingdales; seeing 42nd Street the week before it closed (no
comment); eating at Tavern on the Green (R.I.P.); taking the NBC studio tour;
stalking Letterman (OK, that may have been my idea); and having brunch at the
Helmsley, in the days when Leona was riding high and hadn’t yet shown the world
she’d lost her misanthropic mind. I had both calamari and octopus for the first
time at that buffet. Perhaps that was the day I became a foodie, now that I
think about it. Hmmm. I remember ordering calamari on a lunch date several
months later and impressing my companion – not enough to make it to a
relationship, but that’s neither here nor there and yes, another story for
another time.
When I took my annual solo jaunt to NYC this past spring, I
was struck by memories of that long-ago trip. When we young ladies-about-town
crawled out of our cab at LaGuardia, we barely had enough cash to pay the cab
fare – and there certainly wasn’t enough amongst our collective wallets for a
tip. Not even change. The cabbie
stood before his opened-trunk vehicle, yelling at us in his native tongue and hurling
what were certainly insults about our morals and our mothers as we ran like
hell into the terminal, dragging (for there were no wheels) our bags behind.
Good times.
Maybe it’s because I just know better, being older, wiser
and more well travelled, or perhaps it’s because I place a very high value on
good customer service, but I make sure that anyone who serves/does something
for me is well compensated for his/her efforts. My 24-year-old self was a
little clueless in the ways of travel – I chalk that up to age, naïveté,
budgetary restrictions and that single, self-serving attitude she had which is
often a hallmark of youth. And she NEVER would have been brave or self-secure
enough to travel alone. To the city or anywhere else.
Solo travel is a catharsis for me, especially at this point
in my life. When I am out and about alone, I have no responsibilities to anyone
but myself. No kiddo. No spouse.
No pals (save for the ones I visit along the way.) Just me, myself, I. I can do
what I want when I want.
If I want to spend the afternoon reading and drinking
Prosecco, then dammit, I will.
If I want to stop by a tacky tourist trap or interesting
shop, then dammit, I will.
If I want to listen to a non-stop stream of Broadway show
tunes (original cast recordings, thank you – none of those covers or sub-par
movie soundtracks for this diva) while I drive over 700 miles from mountains to
shore, then dammit I will. And I will sing along as LOUDLY as I like. Hrumph.
If I want to sleep in, skip breakfast and then eat dessert
with lunch, plus a glass of wine, then dammit I will.
What traveling alone has shown me is that no matter what
negative residue lingers in my psyche or how my insecurities chart on the
measurement scale, I am pretty good company. Even to myself. Guess what? It’s
not scary to be alone, contrary to what my younger self thought. It’s healthy
even, and dare I say, fun. As women, we shoulder a lot of responsibility –
we’re wired to be the caregivers, the organizers, the nurturers. And we’re told
that we need to make time to take care of ourselves. Sometimes that means
scheduling a massage, a mani-pedi, a pamper. Or sometimes that means simply
going and doing something alone. Just you, yourself and you. Taking part in an
activity that YOU want to do. No compromise needed. No worrying about what
anyone else in your life entourage wants to do.
You get to be a little selfish. Imagine that.
Go to a movie in the middle of the day? Do it.
Take an afternoon to go crawling through thrift stores and
used book establishments looking for bargains? Do it.
Forgo a to-do list and watch a whole season’s worth of a
television show when no one else is at home? Do it.
I’ve discovered that taking time for yourself is beneficial
for the soul – not only is the indulgence (yes, sadly, it is an indulgence) of
actually doing something you want to do a good thing, but doing it alone takes
it up a level. You’re not, in that moment, responsible for anyone else’s
happiness. And you are in control of… wait for it… you. Does that make sense?
My favorite example of a woman of a certain age taking
“alone” time for herself belongs to my mother. Mama prides herself on keeping
up with pop culture (right now, she is all about Duck Dynasty), even though
there is a bit of a disconnect. Years ago, I was watching the MTV Video Music
Awards one night. The phone rang – it was my mother, calling to ask if the Red
Hot Chili Peppers always wore socks over their penises. Yes, she used the word
“penis.” So it was no surprise when she decided to see what the hubbub was
about and watch Wayne’s World, even though my father refused to go with
her. Off she went one Friday
afternoon, (after getting her hair done) to catch a matinee. Unbeknownst to
her, it was a public school in-service day. The theatre was filled with middle
school boys. And one middle-aged woman. She braved it out, actually liked the
movie and then proceeded to use the word “schwing” whenever she could for the
next month. To this day, I’m still proud of her for taking time to do something
she wanted to do – something very unexpected for her, I might add. Schwing.
I’m home now from a week-long road trip (you can read all
about those hijinks here) with young William. I had some solo time at the end of
the jaunt, as the mister and Will flew home (we met the mister where he’s
currently working) and I drove home, so I was able to recharge a bit even as I
roared down the interstate. School starts next Monday (can I get a HOT DAMN!)
and routine will be resumed as a result. Alarms will be set, structure will be
restored, tans will be fading.
However, I want to try and maintain that holiday feeling of
relaxation and “doing” for myself, whether it be taking in a matinee before
getting into car line or finding a place with good coffee where I can write. I
think such things make me perform better in all the roles of my life. My
insecure 24-year-old-posse-loving-self would not have been comfortable with
this concept. WHAT WOULD PEOPLE THINK?!?!
But I’m older, wiser, hipper (believe it or not) and I tip a
hell of a lot better. And most of the time, I’m at home in my well-moisturized
skin. And yes, I’m different from what I was at 24. I’m discovering that people
I’ve known for a long time aren’t comfortable with that (as evidenced by the
number of them defriending me on Facebook. Bothers me for a millisecond, but
then I move on. If you don’t want to be my friend as I am now, then I know I
don’t want to be your friend either. So suck it.)
If you see me dining alone, don’t say, “bless her heart.” Eat
your own heart out, since I can guarantee I’m enjoying myself and the company I’m
keeping. But if you can, sit down
and enjoy a glass of wine with me. For there is time and place for everything.
Riddle Me This:
If you could take an afternoon for just yourself,
what would you do with the time?
1 comment:
Love, love, love this post. You know I am right there with you in the need for alone time to renew and recharge.
If I had an afternoon to myself, a pedicure, book, and a coffee shop would be on my agenda. Aaaahhhhhh.
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