A week ago I got back from a weeklong visit with my family, a hard, beautiful, busy week packed full of sister/mother/niece/nephew/niece-in-law/cousin/second-cousin/friend who is like a sister/friend who is like a brother/tens of other relatives if only in picture form/driving oh man driving on dirt roads/have I mentioned I didn’t drive for five years before that/wine oh the wine/really more wine then I’ve drunk in the last year and a half/four brewery tours/the most beautiful landscape you’ve ever seen/morning people/night people/amazing hospitality/exhaustion. I loved every minute of it except that the only alone time I had was with Siri and what felt like the world’s largest non-American sedan.
This was followed by a four-day holiday weekend with my husband. We went to a state park for a picnic, my second state park in a week and also in the past 18 months.
Today, my in-laws arrive. I love my husband’s family, for themselves and how different they are from mine, but they are people who believe in traveling and visiting in pack-form and doing things. I’m hoping to avoid screaming “I love you but please let me sit alone in this dark room for a least an hour” and then spending that hour crying because I’m being a horrible host/daughter-in-law. They leave Tuesday.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Last year my birthday heralded a depressive period I’m still trying to pull myself out of. On the (good) advice of my therapist, I’m throwing myself a big house party next weekend. A big party with people.
What I’m really trying to say is that I desperately need an introvert vacation. Even with people I love, that I’m so lucky and happy to spend time, I really need a couple of days alone. Alone alone, you know… by myself. Preferably with a cupcake.
Aesthetic Snafu 