the crazy travel lady
Last week a friend shares an article on all things romance after ten years of marriage. Is there such a thing? What does that look like?
The crazy dog lady quote catches my eye. I am staying in Costa Rica with a colleague, who I think meets the criteria. (If you’ve met her dog, you wouldn’t blame her. And I can’t wait for the moment I finally get to join the ranks of crazy dog ladies everywhere. The most ridiculous “doggie voice”, here I come!).
I read out the following, as we are both choking on laughter:
I talk to my dogs. A lot. My husband does not comment on how much I do this. I am a true dog lady, but one who also has a husband and kids there. While the dog lady has a long conversation with her dogs, the husband and kids are the ones who stand by, cocking their heads quizzically, trying to understand. When I walk in the door after being gone all day, I greet the dogs first. I say things like, “Oh, did you miss your mommy? Oh, you missed your mommy a lot! You needed Mommy and she wasn’t here! Poor puppies!” Then I say things to my kids like, “Hey. What’ve you guys been doing.” There’s a tonal shift. I am less enthusiastic, possibly because I’m unwell. My kids don’t seem to mind. It takes me longer to warm up and cuddle with them, possibly because they’re sometimes whining or yelling about something, or asking hard questions about playdates with kids I don’t like, and I can’t answer their questions until I take my shoes off like Mr. Rogers and lie prone for a few minutes and pour beer into my face.
That’s when I notice my husband. He missed Mommy, too.
But my husband doesn’t yell WHAT THE HELL? at me like he should. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t roll his eyes. I am clearly unstable, but he makes no sounds to this effect. Instead, he hugs me and smiles and says, “How was your day, baby?” He acts like he doesn’t even notice that I should be locked away forever and ever in some bad, drafty place that serves only American cheese. (Source).
I am the travel version of the crazy dog lady.
I resist the temptation to tell Italian about my next trip on the ride from the airport. Most of the time, I resist unsuccessfully.
“What about Italy this time next year? But for two months, instead of three weeks! And I heard that India is so beautiful during monsoon… Maybe, I can just swing by on my way back from Russia this summer? I mean I am already on that side of the world, right? Oh! And did I tell you about this race in Kazakhstan?”
I am barely taking breaths between sentences.
He raises his eyebrow, but listens.
It’s not that he doesn’t think I am crazy. That’s kind of the point, you see?
You share enough of yourself with someone, crazy is the name of the game.
And so I share:
… that I might have had a little meltdown in the Liberia airport, as my flight to Canada was boarding, entertaining all kinds of running-away (from what?) scenarios, and envisioning every dramatic airport scene that ever unfolded in a Hollywood movie.
… that more often than not, the phrase “welcome home” upon arrival from yet another trip throws me into a deeper funk, because where is home, really? And, that sometimes I wonder if it’s normal to feel more “at home” on the road than in my own bed.
… that “getting it out of my system” is never going to happen, as travel fuels more travel and as the wanderlust cells continue to divide, grow and invade into neighbouring cells. [A cancer analogy? Really?]
It’s the acting “like he doesn’t even notice that I should be locked away forever and ever in some bad, drafty place that serves only American cheese”.
That’s romantic, indeed.