tales of a traveling introvert: television time…

Getting to travel for work is pretty damn cool. It’s a problem sometimes, sure. But it’s not a bad problem to have. Where I often run into trouble, outside of the logistics and being away from my people, is that I need me time. I need quiet. I need to decompress. I need to sit in a room where no one is expecting anything of me and just be me.

After a long day of travel or working more than 12 hours each day during a trip that quiet night time becomes more important than ever. At home I’d be watching tv with my kid or hanging out in the kitchen while my guy cooks up something delicious. I might be watching something on streaming, playing video games on my iPad, or listening to music. I might just be staring at the wall.

The important part is that I feel safe being me. And that no stress or effort is brought into the equation.

Here enters the pain in the ass of hotel TVs. If I want to climb into bed and put something on the TV I don’t want to first learn a whole new system in every city, country, or hotel that I’m in. I don’t even have the channels on my tv at home memorized (except the food network — channel 66) so I really don’t want to try to figure out the channels somewhere else. But the TV in my room on this trip and the TV in my room the last trip both had Netflix as an option.

You sign in with your own account. You get your own queue and lists. You don’t have to worry about navigating the hotel’s wifi or keeping your devices charged. And at the end of the day you can throw on a comfy pair of PJs, put your feet up, and jump right into your 20th re-watching of Buffy the Vampire Slayer right where you left off.

It’s a big comfort of home without having to worry about anything but signing in. Assuming, that is, that you can remember your password.

this is not forty…

Forty is a landmark. A milestone. It’s a fixed place in time. It comes with a set of expectations. A certain amount of understanding. Of yourself. Of the people around you. Of the world.

Tomorrow, as far as my birth certificate is concerned, I’ll hit that landmark. But for me nothing feels set in stone. It doesn’t feel like the 40 I pictured as a child. It doesn’t look like the 40 I was warned of in my twenties. It isn’t the 40 I imagined I would look back on with wisdom when I’m old.

39 and 364/365ths…

I’m messy and imperfect. I don’t know how to live in this world. I’ve lost friends. I’ve lost family. I’ve lost my way a few times too.

I forget to pick up my socks off the floor and I leave wet towels on the bench by the bed. I lose things. I only clean up my kitchen before I go to bed so I can prep coffee for the next day. And honestly sometimes I just move aside the dirty dishes to fill the pot. I either go to bed too early or far too late. I buy comic books that I forget to read for months. I watch too many cooking shows, but I rarely cook.

I’m still a little bit in love with Han Solo.

I’ve gone through way more iPhones than I feel is acceptable. I’ve never gotten the hang of eye makeup. I still don’t know how to accessorize. My kid and my boyfriend both have better fashion sense than I do. My love of polka dots has probably reached the level of mania. And I still haven’t found the perfect shade of nude lipstick.

But I have found the right red lipstick. And I can make a perfect omelet. I know that espresso can be correct. My favorite boots and I have seen a bit of the world. I still love a good gin martini, but I’ve also gained an affection and appreciation for bourbon. I’ve made friends that I truly know, and who know me. My family is close, in proximity and in my heart.  I’m fortunate to be the parent to a most amazing person. Privileged to be partnered to the person I didn’t know to dream of.

And I’ve learned how to love and let others love me.

This is not the forty I thought It would be. But it is mine.