Last week, I pulled out my credit card and bought myself a ticket to Greece. Can I afford it? No. When I’m eighty, will I look back and be glad for the trip or regret the cost? I’m thinking the former.
It’s been a busy couple years. I disbanded a marriage, moved into a rental, negotiated a divorce, bought a house, moved again, replaced a kitchen and a sewer lateral amongst other fixes, fended off scorpions, rats, ants and termites, stuck my toe in the dating pool (and fended off scorpions, rats, etc), hand-built one shop and then another (we opened an adorable little shop in Fairfax last month), all while teaching ass class, feeding and sheltering children, and most importantly, trying to keep the hearts and minds of said children intact and whole, never mind mine.
I’m tired. I could use a vacation. The last time I got on a plane was a very long time ago. Ben is taking the kids on a trip for a couple weeks at the end of June so - on my birthday - I’m headed for Greece. Alone.
When I was twenty, I went to Europe for the first time. I spent a month in Oxford studying acting and then I took off for the continent for another month. I was lonely. I almost lost my sweet little mind in Paris. My last stop was supposed to be Greece but homesickness got the best of me before I made it there.
Something that totally slipped my mind until the day after I bought my ticket is a recurrent dream I’ve had for the past year or so. In the dream, I’ve bought a ticket to Europe. I’m going for two weeks, alone. I’m terrified. Terrified of leaving the kids, terrified of being lonely.
So here’s what weird. I don’t feel any of that fear now that I have pulled the trigger on the plan. Who know’s, maybe it’ll be awful. Lonely. Or, maybe, and this is feeling more likely, I’ll find a little island and read and swim and eat and sleep. I’ll rest and listen to my own thoughts and return ready for another round in the ring.
I’m going on an adventure by myself. Or more accurately, I’m continuing the adventure with myself.
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