No worries, mon.
Remind me to go play expat in some exotic, tropical location before I’m too old to properly rock a bikini. Something like the Bali portion of Eat Pray Love, Brazilian lover included, please.
I consider myself to be very fulfilled, very lucky. Awesome job, friends, city, etc. But after a week+ in Negril, Jamaica, I’m now aware that I’m missing out on a few dimensions.
Things like sleep, sun and water (of the swimming, not drinking, variety). A glorious tan! Time away from my much beloved but overly demanding iPhone. Uninterrupted reading. These days, I digest books as if I’m reading a series of blog posts — which is to say, I don’t digest them very well. The last time I spent more than ten minutes reading without checking my phone was, well, my last vacation.
For better or worse, I’m not really a find-balance-in-moderation kind of girl. I gravitate towards extremes. I’ve made a very conscious decision to work my ass off for the next several years, or as long as I continue to love what I do and the people I do it with. There are some inevitable costs: sleep, happy hours (5pm wtf??), long-term relationships (oops). But as Cheryl Sandberg says, “Don’t lean back; lean in,” and all that jazz. And it’s not like I’m not having a blast. (Whoa double negative.)
So if I am going to make myself chill the f*ck out, I am going to have to do it in a big way. A year minimum surfing, yoga-ing, beach-ing, etc. Maybe finishing one of the many novels I’ve “started” (read: written ten pages in a fit of inspiration and never touched again). I’ll meditate and rock sarongs. I’ll eat quinoa, whatever that is.
And I’ll invariably go through serious civilization (as I know it) withdrawals at the onset. When I was without my iPhone the other month for five days (FIVE DAYS!), I was shaky and lost weight. I can only imagine what prolonged deprivation from constant Internet access will do to me. I’ll have no reason to read TechCrunch. I survived a full week in Jamaica, but only barely (and I wasn’t entirely without the interwebs).
Fingers crossed I get to put myself through this torture followed by euphoria. Jamaica is a possible destination, but the guys there are absurdly aggressive. The accents are fun, but the novelty of being called Beyonce wore off very quickly (yeah, yeah, #humblebrag). So I return with skin three shades darker, hair one shade lighter, and a very real appreciation for good ol’ American boys.
Anyway, recommendations welcome! For destinations, not boys.