Well hello there. Back home again, as of half an hour ago, after a wonderful week away. A little jet lagged (I slept an hour or so on the plane, but not sure if that was I’m-still-on-Croatia-time sleep or Bounty-Hunter-is-a-really-boring-movie sleep—the latter being less rejuvenating), a bit more freckled and stuffed to the brim with seafood. A week away was much needed and welcomed, but now I’m back baby. Bring on the friends.
One of the most fascinating things about travel is how quickly we can get used to our new way of life. (This is true of more than just vacationing. If I had my own Secrets of Adulthood, this would be the first: “Things that feel like big changes quickly become the norm.”) I realized this yesterday as I was lounging on a speedboat overlooking the Adriatic Sea. I know, who am I? But while my first day seaside I stared at the water with my jaw on the floor, by yesterday I had to remind myself to really take it all in. Other things I quickly got used to: Not writing every day, not going into an office at all, not spending most nights pursuing potential BFFs.
The week served as a reminder of how easy it can be to fall out of important habits. After months spent building new relationships and girl-dating like a fiend, after seven days away I’m going to have to consciously force myself to do the work again. Because while making and spending time with friends is glorious, planning the get-togethers and mustering up the energy and following through and following through again can be tiring and will never come totally naturally to me. For about 27.5 years I was more of an invitation accepter than extender, letting others do the work and embracing the social connections as they came. I don’t think I will ever be one of those people for whom it comes naturally to chat with perfect strangers or leave “let’s be friends!” notes for waitresses.
But the other thing a vacation is good for—especially one that’s just you and your husband for seven days—is reminding us why we need friends. Because while I loved every single second of my trip, I had only one person to talk to. A man. One who said “TMI, baby” more than once when I started musing on the all funny things travel can do to my body.
So the moral of the week, friend-wise, is as follows: Yes, it’s super easy to stop doing the work. But then you’d have to call up a long-distance friend to complain about the sea urchin needle in your heel instead of showing off your war wound to a new pal face-to-face, and where’s the fun in that?