I love California and have lived here for much of my adult life. However I grew up largely on the east coast, and this time of year I feel a wistful nostalgia for the changing colors and crisp temperatures of fall. So yesterday I did something very unlike me: I booked a long weekend at a creekside cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains. I'm already looking forward to three days of woodsmoke and falling leaves, morning hikes and midnight stargazing.
I say 'unlike me' because unless it's work related, I travel very rarely—and never on my own impetus. I'm the girl who's always on hand for an airport pickup but never needs a ride herself, the one who scrolls through her Instagram feed and grouses about how everyone gets to have a holiday but her. In my mind, vacations have always fallen into the category of things that 'lucky' people do, and no matter how hard I work or how exhausted I get, I'll never be worthy of one myself.
But here's the embarassing kicker. A part of me takes perverse pleasure in the martyrdom that accompanies denying myself pleasure. Yet while I'm at home feeling sorry for myself and passive-aggresively waiting for someone to give me permission to take a trip, everyone else is out there having fun. They're not going to call me on the phone from Tulum to praise my noble renunciation; they're all too busy splashing in the waves and sunning on the sand. The source of this impulse in me definitely bears further exploration. However for now I'm just happy to say that I've decided to suck it up, quit being a baby, and go on vacation—and gosh darn it I'm going to like it.