Monday, November 30, 2009

On Returning

Dive 7 - Oil Slick LeapDive 7 - Oil Slick Leap
Originally uploaded by reallyct
In one of the many joking conversations I find funny and devoted partner finds less funny, I said that I didn't want to get married while we were still living in our Harlem apartment because coming back to that place as man and wife would be unspeakably depressing - the threshold being ruthlessly guarded by legions of mice, drug dealers, and the perpetually drunk and underemployed. I think this also made coming back from vacation deeply depressing. Imagine: you've just had at least a week of relaxation, amped up quality time, and fun and when you get home it smells funny, you worry your neighbors have broken into your house to steal your flatscreen television, and the elevator is out of service...again. The plunge from ecstasy to agony is acute.

Coming back from vacation to real life is never something to look forward to, I find, as one who aspires to being on permanent vacation, but pulling into our driveway yesterday and finding our house free of vermin and indigents made the process of devacationizing less traumatic. Devoted partner looked askance as I collected some inexpensive, but kind of tacky, tchotchkes (blogger knows this word is fake (or Yiddish) and has proposed "crotchless" in its place) souvenirs, but upon unwrapping some of them this morning and locating places for them, I was reminded of how different one feels about one's silly things when one doesn't mind looking at one's surroundings. Yes, I picked up some silly trinkets (and I will be photographing some of them presently that I may open myself up to ridicule), but for the first time in our relationship, we have a home instead of a mere abode, and those silly trinkets, memories of a very enjoyable trip, deserve a place next to our serious things.

This was an especially relaxing vacation that, by virtue of how active it was, seemed far longer than a week, but I noticed our demeanors this morning were different as we prepared to return to work. Can I blame all of that on the fact that we slept on a big-boy bed and not a futon? Hell, we even made a pact to be unpacked before dinner tonight, a feat unheard of in our old life (unpacking was frequently a month-long process - a sloth I attribute to not wanting to admit we were home), but one that's almost mandatory in our new one because we are endeavoring fiercely to be more like functioning adults and less like pigs who happily frolic in their own refuse.

So the vacation is over and a month of busyness begins. We'll have to start remembering what day it is and what responsibilities we have and whose presents need buying, but I hold on to the hope that we will be retaining a little more residual vacation relaxation this time around.

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