I went to New York last week. All the movie magic of the city that never fails to stir. I have never succeeded in leaving that town without lamenting the fact that I don’t live there. Until last week. I couldn’t get on the plane fast enough.
My summer holiday was in Ibiza. Hot and balmy and with funny people in a pretty house. I sat there on the last evening waiting for the back-to-school blues to strike. Except they didn’t.
Escaping – it seems – is no longer what it was. Doing a geographical. A change is as good as a rest. The greener grass. The pot of gold at the end of some relocated rainbow. Running away.
And, while it has been confusing, while it’s a bit of a bore that travel has lost its lustre, there is a definite upside. It appears that I like my life. It seems that – for all the kvetching and tiredness and anxiety and insomnia – my bed is the one I want to be in. My saggy old sofa is the one I want to sit in. My local pizza gaff is the one I want to get fat in and my front door – scratched and battered with a letterbox that encourages an arctic gale to be sucked into the house from October until April – is the one I want to open and close.
It’s a rebalance thing I suppose. A place in between. My thirties were uncomfortable (I’m not even going to address the wilderness of my twenties) and sometimes grief-stricken and furious and hungover. Perhaps my forties are about a kind of light acceptance and appreciation and hard work that I actually want to do. About resentment lifting and texture gathering to form a life that I want rather than one I ended up with. Hell, maybe my fifties will be spent cruising around the world having hot sex with inappropriate men and totally, utterly owning it. Maybe this decade is about investment. No need to escape right now.