Pre-COVID, my job had me on the road quite a bit. Even though I’m a lawyer, the particular job that I do is connected to operations. In other words, I need to understand our operations in order to be an advocate. Also, according to half-a-dozen professional development seminars I’ve taken over the years, I’m a negotiator and a connector. Negotiation and connection require trust. Trust requires looking somebody in the eye and demonstrating to them that you’re not full of shit, that you mean what you say, and that you’ll do what you promise. For years, I’ve done my best work as a legal advisor and advocate when I’m in the Room Where It Happens. So I hit the road.
A little over a year ago, I found myself in Lower Manhattan for a meeting. I was staying at a hotel in the financial district, and I’d met up with a pal in Midtown. Now, I’m a small-town girl at heart, having learned about public transportation only after I moved to the Big City in my mid-20s. But I learned, and navigating one subway is like navigating any other: find a stop; check the map; find the destination; walk the rest. I’d taken the subway back to Lower Manhattan, dropped off my laptop bag in my room, and walked a few blocks over to the Beekman Hotel on the recommendation of my friend.
As I dined, solo, at Temple Court, I savored a three-course dinner of foie gras on toasted brioche, seared scallops over a celery root puree, and a chocolate hazelnut torte, and I let my mind wander. It occurred to me that what I was doing was not for the faint of heart. I’d arrived at La Guardia alone; I’d gotten myself to my hotel alone; I’d figured out public transportation in a big, scary, unfamiliar(ish) city alone; I’d walked to a restaurant alone; I was dining alone.
It occurred to me that if my grandmother had watched me navigate my day, she’d either have been impressed or appalled (I still can’t decide which – maybe a little of both). “Lordy, kid,” she’d have said.
But the experience was nothing new for me. On average of once a month or once every six weeks (even more often in the early years of my career with my current employer), I’d fly solo to some city or another, spend a day or two doing my thang, and then come home, none the worse for wear. And I had my routine down pat. I’d pack a suitcase with the usual: a blazer, a dress, tights, pumps (sensible – suitable for walking a few blocks without agony), workout clothes and shoes for the hotel fitness center, phone chargers, toiletries, undergarments, jewelry. Two nights would fit into my little red TravelPro rollaboard; three nights, and I have to upgrade to the black Samsonite, which some airports insisted had to be checked (looking at you, Logan). I knew the best places to park at O’Hare; I knew where to go for TSA Pre-Check at a dozen airports from New York to California. I knew which row I liked and how to secure a window seat. I could even predict, with a fair amount of accuracy, which runway I’d take off from.
I’d check into some mid-range hotel. Sometimes I’d travel with colleagues and enjoy the obligatory dinner after an already long day; more often than not, though, I was by myself. If it wasn’t too late when I got done with whatever I’d needed to do for work, I’d hit the fitness center or the hot tub, or I’d sit by myself in the hotel bar, sipping a glass of bourbon and letting the hum of conversation around me turn to white noise. Sometimes I’d turn on basic cable and get into bed at 8 p.m. Sometimes inspiration would strike, and I’d jot down some thoughts on my phone, only to pull out my laptop late into the evening and write – some of my best blog posts were written while I was propped up on a starched-white linen encased pillow in a neutrally-decorated hotel room after hours. Because I had space to let my thoughts meander. Because I was completely alone.
That night at Temple Court, for example, I remember making notes on my phone about what my grandmother would think if she saw me do my thing in New York City, thinking at the time how amazing it was to be a modern woman who wasn’t intimidated by such things. How lucky I was to be alive in 2019.
It was 2019.
It’s now been a year since I got on an airplane. A year since I packed my little red rollaboard and tried to get seat 7A on the United app. I don’t miss the travel, per se. What I miss is the opportunity travel afforded me to be alone. Yes, I am perfectly comfortable working in my home, being in my home, running minimal errands, etc. And Hubs and I get along great – we play board games and watch movies and drink wine and generally enjoy each other’s company. In fact, one of my criteria for a partner was that he be somebody I could tolerate spending A LOT of time with (I’m an only child – the vast majority of people, including people I love dearly and every roommate I’ve ever had, start to get on my nerves after a couple of days). I knew I’d marry Hubs when I realized we could be around each other more or less 24/7 without me wanting to slit my throat or turning into a total B (though he might argue that particular point on occasion….).
Anyway, the point is that in these pandemic times, it was obvious early on that I was missing my social life and my usual interpersonal interactions. What never occurred to me until a few weeks ago, though, is that I’ve also missed being alone. With my fairly regular work-related travel pre-COVID, alone-time was baked into my life so effectively and intuitively that it never even occurred to me how much I needed it. No, I don’t want to be alone all the time, but I also don’t want to be alone never.
There’s a fairly popular aphorism to the effect of “Build a Life You Don’t Need to Escape From!” That’s a great attitude, but it’s also incomplete and unnuanced. I don’t need alone time to escape from an otherwise miserable existence; I need it to free up space that’s ordinarily taken up by meal-planning and grocery list-making and laundry folding and garbage emptying and bill paying and dishwasher emptying and conference calls and endless emails. Space to let my mind wander; to be alone with my thoughts; to create.
Like writing a blog post about being alone.
Lawyer At Lunch 