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, and didn’t involve one single visit to
anything related to the Civil War (my daddy was - still is - a big fan of the
War of Northern Aggression. I saw every major battle site below the Mason Dixon
line before I was 14. Yeah. I know.)
I was 24,
considered myself a full-fledged adult and was ready to see on the world. Which
in this case started with New York City. The trip was my Christmas present from
the parents which also included a new piece of luggage. With my fabulous new
chapeau, boots and black gaucho pants (Hush. They were the height of fashion in
1988. You know you had a pair or at least something similar...) I was ready to
hit it. For what specifically, I do not remember. I was just ready for
something. Not just boys, either.
I do
recall that we girls spent all our time together, walking around; getting
takeout pizza (my stars, I thought I was all that, doing the carry-out urban
thing); Christmas shopping at Bloomingdales; seeing 42nd Street the week before
it closed; eating at Tavern on the Green (RIP); taking the NBC tour; stalking
David Letterman (OK, that was my idea); and having brunch at the Helmsley, in
the days before Leona lost her misanthropic mind. We wrung every bit of
excitement out of those four days as only chicks in their eager 20s can.
I was
struck my memories of that long-ago trip as I took a car this afternoon from my
Hell's Kitchen hotel to the airport after another grown-up journey to the city,
this time a week-long solo jaunt. When we young ladies about town crawled out
of our cab at the airport, we barely had enough cash to pay the cab fare - and
there sure wasn't anything left amongst our collective wallets for a tip. Unless
you count change – but
that would have been tacky. The cabbie stood beside his opened- trunk vehicle,
yelling at us in his native tongue and hurling what were certainly profane
insults at us as we ran like hell into the terminal dragging our bags with us.
Good times.
Maybe
it's because I budget better for trip expenses these days or perhaps I now know
and appreciate the value of quality customer service, but I made certain that
my driver today was compensated for his efforts. The lovely man took my bags to
the terminal sidewalk, for goodness sake! (If you could have seen and lifted my
luggage, you'd understand what a great thing this was. Or if you've travelled
with me before - my motto is " don't leave home without it, just in
case." - you know what a scene my bags and I can cause.)
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 to the city
alone.
Solo
travel is a catharsis for me, especially at this point in my life. I have no
responsibilities to anyone but myself when I travel alone. No kiddo. No spouse.
Just moi. That's right. 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
rent an "Adults Only" video in the room because I'm curious to know
what all the fuss is about, then I will. PS: it was sooooooooo boring. The same
things over and over and over. Pose. Growl. Different pose. Sigh. Writhe. Pose.
Plus it is not equal opportunity. So many girl bits (which I do appreciate,
although not really my thing.) and not nearly enough boy bits. Then there is
all that moaning. No one makes that much noise for that long, unless you've
pulled something, have a Charlie horse or need to catch your breath. And do not get me started about the
acting or lack of plot...
Anyhoo.
What traveling
alone has shown me is that no matter what negative residue lingers in my psyche
or how I my insecurities chart on the measurement scale, I am pretty good
company. Even to myself. Guess what? It is not scary to be alone, contrary to
what my younger self thought. It's healthy even, and dare I say, fun. As women,
we bear 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
just going and doing something alone. Just you, yourself and you. Taking part
in an activity that you want to do. Without worry or concern about what anyone
else in your life entourage wants to do. Can you imagine?
Go to a movie
in the middle of the day? Do it.
Take a
day to go crawling through thrift stores looking for bargains? Do it.
Spend hours
reading a book and doing nothing else? Do it.
I’ve discovered that taking time
for yourself by 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. In such moments you are only
responsible for your personal well-being. You’re not responsible for anyone
else’s
happiness. And you are in control of 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 trying to keep up with pop
culture, even though there’s a bit of a disconnect. Years ago, I was watching the MTV
Video Music Award one evening. 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 she wanted to go
see the movie Wayne’s World, even
though my father refused to go with her. So 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 and so the theatre was filled with middle
school boys and one middle-aged woman. She braved it out, found she liked the
movie and then used the word “schwing” whenever she could for the next month. Still so proud of
her for taking time to do something she wanted to do. By herself. Schwing.
I’m home now from my week-long
solo adventure; the cares of the day have marched back into my head and I’m settling back into regular
routine. But I’m
going to try to maintain that holiday feeling, taking time to do for me. I
think it makes me perform better in all the roles of my life. My 24-year-old-posse-loving-self
might not be comfortable with this concept. What would people think? But I’m older, wiser and tip a hell
of a lot better these days. And most of the time, I’m at home in my
well-moisturized skin. So if you see me dining alone, don’t say “bless her heart.” Be jealous, since I’m enjoying myself and the
company I’m
keeping.
love,
auntie janey
Riddle Me
This: If you could take an afternoon for just yourself, what would you do with
the time?
Love it.
ReplyDeleteSundays are my selfish day. I sleep in. I nap. I read. I catch up on the DVR. I shop. I do laundry. I make soup. I don't make phone calls. I rarely answer them. I sit quiet. I reflect. I breath. It's my day. Once a week. And I'm a much better person for it.
ReplyDeleteI would grab a book I've been dying to read and hop on a train to Penn. Once there, I would immediately snag a ticket from TKTS and hop on the N-R-Q to Union Square to do some window shopping in the Village. Then I'd zip back up to Times Square and grab something to eat. After poking in an overpriced theatre souvenir shop (one day I'll find a cheap Take Me Out poster...), I would sit in Shubert Alley with my book and people watch (hoping to see a star, of course). After the show, I would stage door because why the hell not, and then I'd walk back to Penn and finish my book on the train as the dusky skyline passes behind me. I miss those days so very much sometimes.
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