That’s a terrifying idea

I got rattled the other day by the strangest thing: someone suggested I go away for a weekend on my own.

A wave of panic swept over me. OK, maybe just a ripple. But my reaction was quite visceral.

And I’ve been trying to work out why.

I’m sooooooo not the sort of person who goes away for the weekend on their own. I have absolutely no desire to try it.

And here are my excuses …

Going away – for me – is an experience to be shared. It’s a chance to spend quality time with a loved one.

I like having someone tagging along who can gawp at the view with me or dare me to run into the surf.

Plus, I can’t really run into the surf on my own because I can’t swim. If it’s out of lifeguard season my companion needs to be someone who can swim.

Then there’s the financials: if I’m going to spend a weekend alone, I’d prefer it to be at home where the food is cheap and the bed is familiar (and also cheap).

Oh … and I’m that weird kind of introvert who gets high on a bit of social interaction, but burns out pretty quickly on a lot. In much the same way I’m not keen on going away with a crowd, I’d rather it not be a party of one. I prefer something in the middle.

Bring alone for a few days would give me waaaaay too much time inside my own head. Being in a big gang would do my head in.

The suggestion to spend the weekend away on my own came after I wrote a blog post about how I was trying to convince either the kids or DD to spend a weekend at Fingal Bay with me.

I really admire that the person who suggested it goes it alone. It must feel empowering to enjoy solo adventures.

I wish I could be that sort of person, but I’m not.

I did try it once – a trip around the world to Los Angeles, Minneapolis, New York, London and Vienna. Lots of moments from the trip are permanently etched in my brain, but mostly for the wrong reasons. For example, I managed to be the only woman on earth who catches giardia in Sydney BEFORE they go travelling. It was back when I was about 30 and there was an outbreak of it in the Petersham pipes or something, I forget. What I remember was how awful it was and how happy I was to pay £1 to use the fancy Harrod’s toilets.

Oh! Could that be what has caused my aversion? Subconscious triggers from a bad experience?

Or maybe it’s because the times I can get away with the kids or DD seem so precious and rare that doing it without them seems unthinkable.

Nah, it’s probably just because I can’t handle being alone.


PS That’s me above on the solo trip in Los Angeles … too much smog to really see the “view”.

Do you like going away alone?

Song of the day: Joan Armatrading “Me myself I”

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