I’m still in my flannel pajamas. I’ve already had coffee and breakfast. I’m moving on to lunch. I’ve been binge watching my Spanish TV show all morning because the booster shot ran me rough shod. I feel like I’ve just gone through the washer and dryer. My head is about to explode, my body aches all over and I have waves of chills that come and go.
I’m supposed to be getting on a plane to Barcelona tomorrow with two dear girlfriends. We’ve been planning this trip for months. I’m going, in part, to celebrate my upcoming sixtieth birthday. They are getting on that plane.
I’m not.
So, not only am I binge watching because the booster shot kicked my ass, I’m in part, having my own little pity party. It’s not a full blown party, just a tiny “poor me” party that I’m not going to Spain tomorrow with my friends. Nothing like the rager pity parties of the past.
And, mind you, this is all of my own volition. It’s not like my friends said, “You can’t come anymore.” No, I did a risk evaluation a few weeks ago. Omicron was peaking in the US, Europe’s infection rates were on the rise. People were getting stuck at borders. International flights worldwide had been canceled. People got stuck abroad. For weeks. Oh, and my house-sitter-friend isn’t available to stay on.
I noticed anxiety had replaced excitement about the trip.
Anxious I’d get stuck in Spain.
That my elderly dogs would be left with no care.
That I wouldn’t be able to teach my upcoming immersion.
That I’d have to shell out more cash to stay in some Barcelona hotel, and just stare at the walls.
I checked in with friends in Europe to get the on-the-ground-report. “Stay home,” was the overarching message.
Stay home.
My inner pre-teenager had a moment. “I don’t want to stay home. I want to go with my friends. It’s not fair. I don’t have anyone here to help me. I want to go. I want to go. I want to go.”
Shortly after this internal outburst, my nearly-sixty-year-old took over. “It’s ok, Diane. Spain will be there. Your friends will be there. This will not be the last time you three will do something together. You need to stay put. You know you do.”
When I made the decision, when I felt it in my body, I relaxed. I could feel my stomach soften, my shoulders released and my breath deepened. That’s when I knew I’d made the right decision.
But today, a day before the scheduled departure date, feeling like shit, still in my pajamas, I’m binge watching, listening to Spanish, getting a glimpse of Madrid. This is the closest I’ll get to Spain right now. Like a good adult, I wished my friends a wonderful trip.
At least I’m not feeling guilty for binging. Last year’s six months of long-haul COVID taught me to relax into it and watch TV in the middle of the day. In the morning for that matter, because guess what? I couldn’t DO anything else. The virus had zapped me of all energy, my lungs burned for months and I depended on people to grocery shop, walk my dogs and pop by with a smile.
So, while this decision to stay is not what I wanted, I’ve learned, again, that life doesn’t always turn out the way we want it to and to find a way to relax into what’s here in front of us. Even if we have to have a tiny pity party for a moment.