I was listening to a radio show this morning on my way to work. They were talking about taking vacations alone, even just a weekend, all by yourself. Where would you go? What would you do? Would you even consider it? So, on my way home from work, I began to imagine my perfect “Solocation”…..
First, I would find a place to stay that had a big old claw-foot tub, because damn-it, I have watched enough chick flicks to know that one of those tubs filled with water and bubbles is the best way for a gal to relax. Of course candles, a book, and a glass of wine will also be necessary.
This place will need to be a beach house, because I will of course want to walk the beach in a long sweater as the wind blows my hair. There should be a friendly local diner where I will immediately be welcomed by the kindly overweight woman who owns the place and makes the best pies. She’ll probably send me back to my rental with an extra slice and a wink. She’ll tell me funny gossip about the locals, but when I pull out my book or lap top, she’ll leave me alone and just keep my tea warm as needed.
At some point, I’ll likely meet a recently and tragically widowed, handsome local (yeah, yeah, I know I’m married but this is my solocation fantasy so back off! Besides he looks like Richard Gere so, I’m not gonna say no!) He’ll come up just as my bag of groceries spills when I twist my ankle stepping off the sidewalk. He’ll ask if I am ok, I’ll say yes and he’ll laugh, introduce himself and carry my groceries in one arm as he helps me to my rental. Then he will insist on rubbing my feet and making dinner for me while I rest. After dinner, he’ll do the dishes and then leave. (My fantasy, remember)
After a soak in my big tub and half a bottle…oh what the hell, a whole bottle of wine, I’ll get into my comfy pajamas and curl up on the overstuffed couch where a fire is blazing (Mr. Local came back and started it while I was in the tub, then left) and it starts to rain outside—Mmm Cozy. I’ll spend the rest of my solocation in my comfy clothes (I only packed yoga pants and long sweaters), eating carb-rich, creamy pasta dishes and pie from Ma’s Diner. I read a lot because no one ever interrupts me and I watch only chick-flicks and girlfriend comedies that no one would ever go see at the movies with me back in my real life. I stay up late and sleep til noon and Mr. Local only shows up to rub my feet or make new pasta. Anything else I need, I can do myself (I packed appropriately). Maybe I’ll let him stay late one night if I feel like discussing my thoughts on my writing or my job or my opinions on Kim Kardashian and Miley Cyrus, because he’s a good listener and is captivated by every word that comes out of my mouth. But then I’m tired so he has to go.
When my foot is better, I play records on the record player that came with the rental and dance in the living-room as much as I want because no one is watching. The records this place has kicks ass, lots of oldies, Elvis, The Turtles, The Beetles; I could dance all night. But alas, when morning comes it’s time to go home. Mr. Local shows up to help pack my car and say goodbye. He gives me a present which is an old book on some topic I love and a bouquet of mini sunflowers. Then I head home, completely relaxed and not even an ounce heavier than when I left home, in fact, somehow I lost 5 pounds. Later that night, lying in my bed at home I’ll open my book to find a note tucked inside. Seems Mr. Local has reserved the house again for me for next year’s solocation, because oh, yes, there will be one!