An old friend from high school recently took off to the woods in Kentucky for a few days of rest and relaxation. The kicker? She went by herself. On purpose.
Apparently it’s something she does every year — or, whenever she feels like she just needs a wind-down. She grabs her tent, a few books, loads up her car and disappears into the woods for a couple of days.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
The idea of camping by myself in the woods for a night or two is so massively appealing, I’m actually finding it difficult to put into words just how much I want to do this.
And if you’re thinking she’s just some crazy, vagabond hippie girl — you’re dead wrong. She has a master’s degree, works in a professional field, owns a home and is in a committed relationship.
She just likes her “alone time” and I feel like this is something that is missing from my life.
I’m never alone.
I think part of the problem is I often equate solitude with loneliness when, in reality, they’re two very different things.
I don’t want to “be lonely” — who would? The old man in the nursing home who never gets any visitors is “lonely.” I just want to be left alone. Not all the time, just for a day or two. Is that weird?
Two days of not having to worry about anyone but myself. Two days of going to bed when I want and then sleeping as late as I want. Two days of cooking (what I want) when I’m hungry and not when schedules dictate. Two days of reading books without interruption, two days of not returning emails and phone calls, two days where no one asks anything of me. In short? Two days of silence.
Sounds like Heaven.
Of course, it’s easier said than done. Here in the real world I have a husband, a job and two kids. Realistically speaking, I can’t just take off to Table Rock (or wherever) for a couple of days.
Or can I?
I work hard, don’t I deserve a break? Can’t I have 48 hours to myself? Is that really too much to ask?
The truth is, I can’t help but feel this whole “forest fantasy” thing of mine is selfish. For example, my husband is a wrestling coach and several times a year he gets asked to travel out of state for a week or so to teach clinics. Knowing I’m busy as well, he always clears it with me beforehand — not in an “ask the wife’s permission” sorta way, more in a “let’s coordinate our schedules” kinda thing.
I’m always cool with it.
But that’s different, that’s work. If he came to me and said “Hey, I know you work full time and we have two kids but I want to take off to the woods for a weekend and just leave everything to you,” I’m not so sure I would be as accommodating.
At the very least, I would probably read too much into the situation and would question whether he was subtly trying to tell me something was wrong with our home life — that he was unhappy.
Hypocritical, I know.
But maybe it’s all in the wording … If he came to me and said he had a friend of his that took these little mini-trips to clear their head, relax and refocus and that he was finding himself drawn to the idea — I think I would be more willing to explore the notion.
The bottom line is whether or not my camping trip ever takes place, I have come to the realization that there is a need of mine that’s not being met: time to myself.
Just the fact I so strongly latched on to the idea of my friend’s solo-trips underlines my craving for some degree of solitude. Maybe it doesn’t need to be a whole weekend, just an hour or two a day might suffice.
After all, I’m pretty sure the world would keep right on spinning if I hung up a “do not disturb” sign every once and a while.
