R is in Europe for two weeks with his friends. Before he left I was doing some standard whining about his extended absence and said: Who is going to spoon me while you’re gone?
R: Um, hopefully no one.
And by his friends, I mean that he is traveling with six – SIX! – other people for two whole weeks. I got second-hand anxiety every time he mentioned the stress of planning a trip with so many people. I’ve accepted I’m a crotchety old bitch that is set in my ways, which also means there are certain things I will never enjoy doing, such as:
- Traveling with a grip of people that I am not related to and/or not being paid to travel with for business purposes;
- dining out at a restaurant with more than three other people;
- loud, crowded concerts;
- loud, crowded bars;
- bars that have lines to get in (never ever);
- restaurants that involve waiting in line (thanks again, New York Times, for ruining my chances at eating at Rose’s Luxury)
- WMATA metro delays that involve offloading the train and being stuck on the platform with 10,000 tourists that have no idea what the fuck is going on;
- ticketed attendance of a president inauguration (crowds, lines and no place to pee, although I’m glad I did that once);
- shopping at Whole Foods before a weather-related incident;
- shopping at Whole Foods period;
- not doing exactly what I want exactly when I want to do it.
Are we sensing a theme here? I dislike mass quantities of strangers and not being the keeper of my own destiny. And that’s just specifics I can think of on the fly. Think of that list if I really dedicated time and energy to it.
Anyways, so R said, I assume in an attempt to be sweet and thoughtful, that he wished I was coming with him. To which I responded, “Oh, no you don’t, I would ruin our relationship and your friendships within three days traveling with that many people.”
“Well,” he said, “I wish just you and I were going…?”
“Yes, that sounds nice.”