Travel and FOMO

adventures of the everydayMy sibling-in-law — aged 23 — spent the day here on Sunday visting with my son/their nephew for the last time before moving to Sweden for (at minimum) three months.

I’ve got all sorts of feelings about this.

Not in the terms that people are probably thinking; I genuinely like my sib-in-law, but between the age gap, distance, and other factors, we aren’t close.  We get on well when we hang out, but the frequency with which that happens is relatively rare, and when it does happen, it’s really them hanging out with Bear (which, fair; he’s a pretty cool kid).  But missing them while they are on their journey isn’t really an issue; we’d probably see them maybe twice in the intervening time.

It’s more that I’m wracked with a near debilitating case of FOMO.

I don’t even want to go to Sweden.  Like, don’t get me wrong, it’s probably a lovely place, but it’s not on my bucket list, nor do I have any particular connection tot he locale or the culture to fuel my desire to visit it.  It’s the concept of travel in general.  It’s the freedom inherent in travel that I envy.

I didn’t have much in the way of a young adulthood.  Between my mother’s over-protectiveness and need to micro-manage, my own mental illness/anxiety, and the fact that we were barely keeping our head above the water financially, travel was something that was never, ever on the table for me.  The furthest I ever went was to New Hampshire — and ten minute ride over the border — to take advantage of the lack of sales tax.  When I hit college and my dreams of studying abroad were dashed for financial reasons, I fought tooth-and-nail for the few opportunities that arose to do anything akin to travelling.  I made friends with a girl from New York my Senior year, and after crimping and saving and a number of screaming matches with my mother, finally managed to make a couple of trips to Westchester over breaks and long weekends.  That would be the totality of my travel experience until I got married.

In the intervening years since, it’s gotten a little better; I’ve been to Maine and Vermont, Florida multiple times, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Quebec, and Montreal.  But in the intervening years, despite shaking off the shackles of my over-bearing mother, I now have a job, a kid, and a mortgage.  I’ve never quite been able to pull my head above water financially, at least with regards to travel.

I get restless easily.  I, like my husband, thrive on schedules and routines, but I also love deviation from the norm, provided it’s self-directed and desired; I balk at change thrust upon me, but will gladly throw myself into something new should the prospect appeal to me.  Being told that there are Things to Be Done and that those same things are Things I will Never Have the Chance to Do Them in the same breath is heart-breaking.  Knowing that the stories so many of my friends tell of their exploits — be they student exchange trips, AmeriCorp or PeaceCorp service, backpacking trips as college kids, or luxury resort-hopping as adults — are things that are always going to be aspirational for me, without the prospect of fulfillment, kills me.

There’s freedom in travel, but not everyone has the freedom to travel.  My husband works a job where securing time off is difficult, and his time off is limited.  We need to travel someplace child-friendly, or else make sure we can find long-term babysitting for our son, and round-trip domestic flights alone often cost nearly half a month’s income (and that’s just the flight).  It’s not that we can Never, Ever Travel Ever, it’s that at the end of the day, it’s more work.  It’s months and months of saving and sacrificing, planning and prioritizing, and even then, our options are limited by when we can secure time off, how much we can afford to take, and how quickly we think we can recover our losses.

So when I see friends and family — and it’s been happening more and more frequently lately — talk about booking flights and resorts and trips and cruises, with what (to me) is startling frequency, it hurts. Just a little.  And just a little more each time.

I am happy for them; for my sib-in-law, for my friends and family.  I just wish it was something I could be a part of.

37

adventures of the everyday37 is not a “big” birthday.

It’s weird; there is a very specific point in our lives (at least in Western/American society) where we seem to be having milestone birthdays almost constantly: 10 heralds in double-digits; 13 is bat/bar mitzvahs and the start of the teenage years; Sweet 16 and being able to drive/at the age of consent; 18 and being a legal adult; 21 and being legal, full-stop.

Then nothing until 30 — you go over a decade having these big, celebratory birthdays one after the other, and then nine years of nothing before you hit a milestone that we are a society (And women especially) have been conditioned to dread.  It’s all kinds of bullshit, folks.  And then after that, we celebrate the decades.  40, 50, 60.  Ten years waiting to celebrate, what, surviving the preceding ten years?  How sad.  For real.  Just, how fucking sad.

Like, I get that the traditional societal milestones kind of taper off after 21; once you are a legal adult, what’s there to celebrate about getting older?

Like… lots, actually.  I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier with my life than I have been in my 30s.  Some of that, granted, comes from the fact that I am, in many ways, quite privileged, and have financial, familial, and career stability, and I know that’s not true for a lot of people, through no personal failings of theirs.

But by the same token, most of the satisfaction I felt during the last decade or so has been because of choices I’ve made and efforts I’ve put in for personal victories and milestones, not because of pre-ordained rights of passage.  I’m happier because I’ve taken some risk, taken up new hobbies, learned new things, and, honestly, stopped putting so much stock in the thing society says I should be doing.

So, I think we should come up with, not new milestones necessarily, but new ways of celebrating our years after 30, each year with a new theme or new ritual.

Like, ok: I’ve noticed that there has been a trend in recent years where people love to write articles and listicles about what women over 30 should “never” wear.  Oh, fuck those articles hardcore.  Our 31st birthdays should be about celebrating and refining our personal styles; we should have swap meet parties, where all our friends bring over clothing and we swap and share, and/or go thrift store hopping, finding unique pieces that flatter and define our own personal styles, build a “Fuck You, I Wear What I Want” wardrobe, and have an epic photo-shoot.  That’s it, that’s 31.  We celebrate saying eff-off to people telling us how to look and how to dress, and embrace our own unique styles.

32 is when I started to really feel like I’d lost a lot of social connection (part of that was having a kid, which can be very isolating in the earliest years), so 32 maybe is a celebration of your closest friendships and a move to make new ones.  Spend the day reminiscing with your favorite people; break out photo albums (which are probably becoming obsolete relics, but I know I still have a few); have everyone contribute to a memory jar, writing down your favorite in-jokes, moments, milestones, and memories; have lunch at your favorite haunt from your younger years (if it’s possible; I know mine was Borders, and that’s a thing of the past now, sadly); and cap the night off by heading out to a meet-up for a mutual interest, where you can all make connections and hopefully forge some new friendships, as well.

I mean, it would take me a while to come up with one for every year, but how nice would that be, to have a reason to really look forward to birthdays again?  To feel like you’re still growing and that each year means something new, means new growth, instead of just another year older?

I’m not sure what 37 is yet.  I’ve got a few hours left to figure it out and define it, but I turn 37 tomorrow, and I’ll be spending time with a childhood friend who I haven’t seen in nine years, and visiting a city I adore, so I think I have a good foundation for a good day.

I’ll let you know what’s special about 37 on the flipside (and hey, if anyone else is interested in new rituals for each year of your 30s, I’m having fun and would love to continue this train of thought later), but for now I’m just going to celebrate seeing a beautiful city, an old friend, and another year.

My Brain Doesn’t Trust Itself

adventures of the everydayI’ve been working at my job for fourteen years.  Fourteen years, guys.  I feel almost as at home in that building as I do… well, at home.  I know my coworkers’ rhythms, I know the routines, the programs, and the schedules — even the off-season ones.  I’ve been working Extended School Year itself for a decade, missing only the year when I was halfway through my pregnancy and (literally) couldn’t stand the heat.  I’ve worked every grade level, every skill level, every permutation.

All this to say, I know my job, okay?  So then why, for the love of Christ, did I spend an hour this morning freaking out over the absolute most basic aspects of my assignment?

And this happens every goddamned year, too.  Always, without fail.  First, I have a shitty night’s sleep the previous night, because I’m wound up and anxious about the start of something “new” (every iteration of a “first day” elicits this reaction in me — transitioning is hard).  Then, I get through the night, get up, get ready, and go, and spend the entire ride to work checking and double checking my bag, convinced I’ve forgotten something (this at least has precedence, because I forget something roughly, oh, every other day or so.  What’s awful is that once I’ve checked for and found said item, I’ll still stop and check for it at least three more times.  Lest it be summoned into the ether, for Christ’s sake).

Then I get to work — super early, too, because I have to carpool, and I only have the one ride.  You’d think that getting there early would be relaxing, right?  No rushing, just sit down, settle in, maybe bring a book?  And it gets to be; after the first day jitters are over and done with, it’s nice getting there more than an hour early and just sort of chilling.  But that first day?

Today I spent literally an hour doing laps and growing increasingly anxious that:

  1. I was in the wrong building.  The wrong building, people.  It’s always been this building.  It’s only ever been this building.
  2. That I had the date wrong.  You know, the same date it’s been forever and always into perpetuity (the Monday after the 4th)?  The date that was in my planner, on Google calendar, and in the three separate emails I got over the last few weeks reminding me about ESY??

And it’s gonna happen again tomorrow!!  You know how I know?  Because it’s already started.  I’m already second guessing where I’m supposed to be (this is a separate program conducted off-site), even though this program has always had me meet at the same place, and I confirmed twice with the lead that the schedule and routine was the same as last year.  Twice.  A program that I, again, have worked before (though granted not as long term, this is only (“only“) my fourth year).

But logic isn’t going to shake this anxiety.  Logic never does.  I am going to feel antsy and slightly panicky literally until I see my lead walk up to the building tomorrow morning, and that kind of sucks, but I don’t know what else to do about it.

After tomorrow?  Ah, the rest of the summer should be smooth sailing.  I’m honestly really looking forward to it!  But these first two days, man.  These first two days, my brain just short-circuits and it’s non-stop panic mode.

Hopefully I can get a decent night’s sleep, and find quick respite in the morning.

Fuck Anxiety Brain.