The best part of the trip

So it’s over, or nearly so.
After months of planning, 6 fun-filled days of eating, shopping, and drinking are over. I’m at the airport with bags under my eyes bigger than the bags I checked. I’m so tired I didn’t even notice that I’d plugged my earphones into the jack that looks like its marked with the obviously international sign for a bon-bon (?) and have been blaring Defying Gravity for the many passengers waiting at Gate 126 to enjoy.
My pants are tighter and my skin more dehydrated, but I feel more alive and thankful than I have been in a long time. I now remember what it’s like to footloose and fancy free. I remember how to walk in stilettos without falling down, how to get out of cabs without flashing passersby, I remember that I am genuinely interesting, even to strangers who don’t give a hoot about me. I remember that my body can take about 4 drinks before I start to slur, and that I LOVE sleeping in. I’ve rekindled old friendships and spent hours reminiscing about the good old days when I barfed rotini pasta into the bathroom sink that I shared with my roommate and sat on a toilet seat lined with toothpaste (payback from same roommate).
You get into a groove in life, some call this a rut, and it can trip you up. It can cause resentment when it seems all you’ve done in a day is wipe the table over and over again. 6 days without doing laundry can set you free. 6 days in New York City with an average of 5 hours of sleep a night had the nonsensical effect of making me feel ridiculously alive again. Maybe it was the grit and the smog, the lack of monotony, eating out for 15 meals straight, the lack of responsibility to anyone but myself, or a combination thereof, but it was utterly delicious.
But like a whole piece of cheesecake, it is too decadent to have everyday. Like Groundhog Day, it was fun but any longer and my liver may have experienced permanent damage.
I see young boys travelling with their parents in front of me. They’re wrestling and whining and annoy their parents, and it makes me miss my guys. This is the best part of girls trips – coming home. I may have to wake them when I get home tonight.

Till next time,
Love Lucie

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