Weekend in New England

I write this entry remotely, saving it to a word document to post later. I write it, in part, with my friend Cindy in mind as I write from Vermont, her home state. The apparent home of maple syrup, penuche fudge, fresh ice cream, and faux antiques. Wisconsin, I believe, is the home of cheese but Vermonters may beg to differ

I’m angry. Mostly at myself.

Doug’s college friend sent Ellie a beach towel. Embroidered. The cheek! How can I return it? But thoughtful, and different from the tide of onesies. “Thank you,” I wrote, and then a bit more. The phone rings and it’s an invitation to come stay in Vermont, at the family summer house, at the tail end of their vacation. Say yes, I told myself, and it didn’t take much. Why not? I’m home full time, Ellie’s portable, Doug should see his friends. Why not?

“Yes” I said.
We packed, we came, we’re here.
I hate it.

Not them. It. This Place. Vermont. I hate Vermont. I hate visiting in general, and today, Saturday, I hate Vermont in particular.

Monday, I hated Maine.
Back in college, I hated the Cape.
Mid twenties, I hated Newport.

I just never ever fit in. I always felt a beat behind, awkward in a sea of laid back, roller blading, biking to breakfast, jeep driving, snowboarding, kashi crunching, let’s just hang out school of likeminded fish.

At first I thought I was insecure. “I hate visiting because I’m socially awkward.” But as I age, I realize that I’ve always been fairly convivial, so in retrospect I think that it’s likely that I mistook someone else’s poor conversation skills as a indicator of my own lack of social graces. Although sure, I still pause occasionally and question myself and there’s some internal angst pre and post every conversation that I somehow screwed up.

Then I thought I was inflexible. As in I like to be surrounded by my own things, I like routines. Then I accepted the fact that no shit, who doesn’t – so that wasn’t it.

I stopped going away. I hid behind money at first – I wasn’t of a socio economic group that had friends with “houses”, I was “: uncomfortable” and really, too broke. I had rent, car payments, insurance, etc. who had money to go away? Then I hid behind being unmarried…as in “I’m single and I live alone, what exactly do I need to “get away” from?”

This weekend I nailed what my real issue is.

I hate grime.

I hate that it’s de rigueur to stay in an old farmhouse, old cape house, old cottage. I hate the whole scene. Waking up in a damp musty bedroom with discarded quilts from the 70s. Stumbling to breakfast, humid from a nights sleep in a strange bed, walking into a room where there’s inevitably a farmhouse table littered with crumbs, a half heel of bread still in the bag, newspaper discarded willy nilly, rings from coffee mugs or mixed drink glasses, or maybe just a breakfast bowl and some blowhard that you couldn’t stand last night sitting around in his sweat shorts wanting to chit chat about how you slept.

I hate the fact that the floors are gritty with sand and gravel from treks into the woods, beach, yard – wherever. I hate vacation home furniture, the furniture that the sweat of a thousand backs has been rubbed on after a day at the lake, or after skiing. I that you can press your nail into the top of a dresser and it leaves a crescent. I hate other peoples bathing suits draped over the shower, or worse, the shower curtain itself, with brown spots at the hem. I hate the painted shelves in the bathroom, the cracked corners accumulating dust and hair. I hate black flies.

I also hate "away from home" grilling. I mean, isn’t it enough that you have to go to some strange grocery store, search for it, shop for it, tote it back, unpack it, and take it out of the packaging. Now we all have to go outside, start a fire, and watch it cook? What’s the POINT?? Have we never heard of a stove? Hello. We’ve moved indoors people, it’s called evolution. Step away from the fire pit.

I worked hard, to make money, to buy nice things, that I surround myself with.

I just don’t see the appeal in leaving it.