Wednesday, April 16, 2008
I am home from a trip with one of my best friends and I'm not even hungover.
How's THAT for growing up already?
Portland was rad, as I'm sure you can imagine, especially given that we had some unseasonably warm weather and those Portlanders (is this what they're called? I don't know.) really come out of their shells when the weather gets over 70 degrees. Oh the pasty legs and ill-fitting tube tops. That is something of a tourist attraction in itself.
Now that I'm home in the sunshine (brought that good weather right back with me, you know) and reflecting on our trip I can definitely say that Portland was a good choice for our yearly girl's trip. And also it appears I've done some growing up since I spent the whole of my time doing exactly what I wanted to do instead of getting all self-conscious and suggesting we do something more widely acceptable (and supah boring) like trolling museums or looking at statues.
And then I also didn't get all "we need to party like we're still in college so that we don't feel like old ladies" and insist we spend our nights bouncing around bars and clubs instead of doing what I really wanted to do which was to have leisurely and decent meals (eating bar food at 2 am doesn't count as dinner anymore) with a few good cocktails and walk back to the hotel for a pj party in front of the tube.
I know! I'm wicked lame and boring and getting old and sad or something. But really I think that all people want to give up drinking their heads into hotel toilets and moving through vacation mornings shrouded in sunglasses, hooded sweatshirts and shame but they're too afraid of being called lame, boring, old and sad so keep on with the charade until they come home to an intervention or realize they're "that old guy" at the bar and no one is buying their act anymore.
Me, I'm over it. Call me what you will, I didn't wake up with a single hangover, didn't shame myself publicly in front of a new city or get off the plane with any inexplicable tattoos or bruising and I'm pretty happy about it.
I'm also not at all feeling guilty about the amount of shopping I did or the self-indulgence I took part in because I had a very capable PIC along for the ride and that is the key.
I think she really said it best: "You know you are on vacation with the right friend when you both jump at the sight of vintage trim/racks of Amy Butler fabric/organic fruit at a farmer’s market/a giant Banana Republic outlet."
There's room for all my bizarre/old lady/farmer wannabe/fashionista on a budget/lazy ass desires on these trips and that's why I love them. Not once did Kelli look at me and go, "Really? You want to go to a Tulip Festival and walk around a field?" and that is grand.
Acceptance for your freakishness. That is the key to all good friendships and vacations. And it doesn't hurt when you go to cities like Portland where you can indulge all your freakishness at once.
You're good shit, Portland. I like you when you're sunshiney.