by MIA FREEDMAN
This week I flew interstate for a meeting and accidentally stayed for three days. How very rockstar of me. But as much as I’d like to think myself capable of such behaviour, I wasn’t on a bender. I haven’t done that since 1998 when I had such a big weekend with two girlfriends, I can only dimly recall it. Something, something, tequila, laughing, something, dancing to Kylie, tequila, something, the end. HEADACHE.
When I went AWOL this week, the only illicit substance involved was solitude. Great delicious chunks of it. Since starting a family, being alone has become a precious commodity. The less solo time I have, the more I crave. And that’s how I came to run away from home. If you’re in any position to do so, I highly recommend it. Each day I’d call my husband and say “I think I want to stay another night”. And I did.
That first night, I slept ridiculously well. It was the kind of sleep people should write poems about. Songs should be sung. Gold medals awarded. That good.
I now understand why some people try to buy beds from hotels. ‘If I could just take this magic bed home, I could sleep that well every night!’ they think.
Fools. It’s not the bed. It’s your head. There’s a level of relaxation I inhabit when I’m away – even on work trips – that’s just not possible at home. Here, every moment alone feels like I’m stealing time from my family. First I feel guilty. Next, resentful about the guilt. As my husband would say “Lord, it’s complicated being you.” He’s not wrong.