I’m laying like a therapy patient splayed across my coach. I’m in mismatched sweats, my hair is thrown up in a bun that’s more to keep my self-trimmed bangs from poking into my eyes than it is to offer any sort of polish. The baby hairs are flying, the skin is bare. The work-from-home version of myself, who eats stale toast and fried eggs for lunch, who listens to the background chatter of the Real Housewives as she tip taps away on stories is a far cry from the woman I was just a few weeks ago.
For a week in early March, I was not just Aemilia, I was cruise Aemilia, on assignment, but also on sorta-vacation. She answered her emails from a lounger, she dressed up in heels for dinner, she sat poolside sipping a sidecar while the sun was still above the horizon. The only dramas on board were the complaints of fancy old people, lamenting how a staff member hadn’t memorized their drink order (the horror) or drunkenly embarrassing their spouses as they sang along to the lounge pianist.
As a non-grumpy non-old person, onboard I was both overwhelmed and slightly intoxicated by the strange existence, indulged and babied, expected to not lift a finger. Though the constant attention from staff was often more overwhelming than relaxing, I basked in the indulgence of unlimited ice cream and the expectation that I zhuzh before dinner. You know those sexy, fancy dresses that sit at the back of your closet — you have yet to wear them — you’re just waiting for that ultra-specific occasion to break them out. Well, I’ll have you know, over those six days, I wore three of them (Nanushka, Carolina K, and Doen ICYWW)! Though I’m usually ruthless in dumping things I don’t wear, I’ve coddled each of these for at least two years, because they represent a carefree, unencumbered version of me that I don’t see too often, but I refuse to let go of entirely. Lucky me, the occasion finally came.
In part, it’s that long-seeded anticipation of transforming into vacation Aemilia that in part makes her so appealing. I’ve been holding onto heels and dresses, awaiting the rare moment to show them off. Living in New York, I exist under the guise that everything I want to do is the most difficult version. If I want groceries, I’m walking or biking the mile home with 30-lb bags. If I’m headed to the city for a dressy work event, I’m a freelancer, and thus, still taking the subway — and in need of walkable shoes. As I currently come up on one week with no heat in my apartment, I could care less about looking lavish, I’m busy piling on layered blankets in an attempt to work as I slowly lose feeling in my fingers.
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The chance to escape the internal checklist every time I want to leave the house — How much walking am I doing? Am I risking blisters? Do I even look presentable? — and dress solely as my aspirational self felt like a chance to play a part of someone a little more relaxed, unencumbered, and fabulous, if only for a little while. I spent the week leading up to my trip imagining my outfits (and the photos I’d finally get the chance to take in them).
And yet, as serenely satisfying as vacation can be, why is it that after a week of suntanning, of reading the books I’ve had glaring at me on my shelf for months, of dressing up for dinner and indulging in sunset cocktails, that I start to get this anxious itch to return to the comfort of my routine?
With work deadlines looming and knowing my plants are slowly drying out as they’re left unattended, I’m starting to miss the coffee my boyfriend brings me in the morning, my running route, and having the agency to cook my own meals. And while I hadn’t reached the gripeyness of an old rich person yet, the rocking boat that relaxed me on night one is beginning to make me feel seasick.
Years ago I got out of a relationship when we just couldn’t see eye to eye on big life stuff. Where to live, what inconvenience was worth fighting about, how to make time for one another. We broke it off to take some space. After a few months we ran into each other and while we’d since moved across the country from one another, we began what I’ll call a vacation relationship, where we’d meet up on a trip, spend a few days together, and go our separate ways again.
The issues that had brought us (me, mostly) to tears, didn’t really seem to matter anymore simply because we were existing in a suspended state of animation — an emotional escape. But reality was always peering over my shoulder, whispering in my ear and reminding me that the thing I love most about a relationship is building a life with someone, not escaping one.
I’ve written hundreds of stories about packing for vacations — how to fit everything in a carryon, how to create a capsule wardrobe for your destination, how to avoid overpacking, but what I’ve never touched on is the bittersweet feeling when cruise Aemilia and her fancy outfits are no longer enough.
Like the third-act in any warm, fuzzy Anne Hathaway movie, I guess I’m a protagonist who comes to realize the glow-up wasn’t all it was meant to be. Instead, I’m ready for the fancy cut-out dresses to go back to their special corner in the closet, and the jeans and sweatshirts stake their claim over my body once again.