Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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Before I threw myself into the ocean, giggling at my absurd doggy-paddling and tippy-toe bobbing lest I get my face wet; before I took my first picture of my toes in the sand (because when you’re alone you wind up with a lot of those pictures, I guess)- all I could think was, “What am I doing here?”

Not everyone can travel alone. A lot of people are shocked to hear about the trips I’ve taken and continue to take solo. They question my safety or how much fun I can possibly have. They give me the once over and accuse me of unseemly shenanigans and illicit beach-side hook-ups with strangers. And sometimes, they think [quite comically actually] that I’m brave.

The thing is, I don’t know that I’ve ever been scared to travel alone. I certainly can’t remember ever thinking that way at least. There does always seem to be an “Am I really doing this?” moment, but it quickly passes. This is what I’ve been wanting to do for as long as I can remember.

I grew up camping at national parks out west and going to Disney World and Florida beaches each year with my family. I vacationed the way they wanted to vacation, ate the food they wanted to eat, saw the towns and museums they wanted to see. I’m grateful for those experiences and memories, but I also spent the better part of my adolescence planning how I would do it instead one day. On my own terms.

Now that day is here- arrived a couple of years ago actually- and it’s become one of two things that I consistently do for myself in order to keep hold of sanity and happiness and to find optimism in the day-to-day. For whatever reason, knowing I have a trip on the horizon makes each day more bearable when all I want to do sometimes is yell at people to “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” as I did at the TV last night during The Marriage Ref. At times, the prospect of traveling is the only thing that can pull me out from the figurative (and sometimes literal) covers that I crawl under to hide.

But I didn’t wind up traveling alone overnight. It’s been a natural progression for me. First, learning to eat alone- breakfast, then lunch because they’re the easiest to manage. Sometimes I’d even venture out to a movie alone- matinees in the beginning, then Saturday nights amidst date night couples. Not long after that, I’d find myself going to a musical, the ballet, or the symphony- when you’re “only one,” you can get a surprisingly amazing seat even at the last minute. Somewhere in the midst of my twenties I realized that I’d rather enjoy the things I love alone than not be able to enjoy them at all simply because I might not be able to share them with someone else.

So I went. I ate those dinners and drank that wine. I applauded at the end of Avenue Q on my birthday. I cheered the ABT for their skill and beauty. I strolled through Central Park in the fall and skated at Rockefeller Plaza at Christmas. I toured London- the Tower and the Abbey. And I’ve now been to the D.R. three times. Alone, and not at all lonely.

But standing there on the beach at that moment, something about vacationing alone had changed for me. The solo traveler shtick didn’t feel the same as in years past. If traveling alone was a pair of comfortable go-to shoes, they suddenly pinched my feet. For the first time, I wanted someone to join me.

In the days that followed, I went on to enjoy my time in the sun, relearned the bachata, kept my top on, befriended the entire resort staff it seemed. But the whole while, I kept thinking of how much I wanted to be sharing it- the sunrise spot, the balcony rocking chairs, the early morning beachfront massage, even the terrible food at the lunch buffet- with him.

xoxo, nic

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After three days in NYC, smiles at Top of the Rock, dinner in the Village at The Little Owl, brunch at Tavern on the Green, a stroll through autumn tinted leaves in Central Park; I’ve realized just that. My boyfriend and I were exactly the same on vacation as we are at home. Same meaningless squabbles, same running jaded commentary, same pithy PDAs, same likes and dislikes. Same us, different city.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d allow this realization to lend itself to disappointment. “How was the trip? Did you have fun?” everyone asks. In reply, my answers are clipped and wooden at best. I really want to say, “Can you try back later?” Because I don’t know that I would actually say that it was “fun.” We have so many shared interests that it was…easy. Maybe it wasn’t a romantic, exotic escape, but it wasn’t a debacle of differing travel styles either. It just was, I guess. We went away. And now we’re back. The end.

In all honesty, I’ve been trying not to draw comparisons here. It’s unfair and faulty and creates problems where there are none. The unwise comparison being that the last man I racked up frequent flyer miles with, well, we were at our best when on vacation. Our traveling compatibility was epic, as was our drama-filled reality at home. It literally was as though we’d pack our bags only to leave all of our baggage behind. Still, no matter how great the vacation, there was always a reckoning greeting us at Arrivals. Well, that is until there were no more trips anymore.

All of that was nearly two years ago now and I haven’t done much traveling since. What traveling there has been I’ve done alone, and I think I’ve gotten used to, even warmed to solo travel.

So when I decided to plan a surprise birthday vacation- our first trip!- for my kind, thoughtful, but desperately unhappy with all things Chicago boyfriend- I tried to keep my excitement in check, both to match his own low key mindset and fend off any disappointment I might feel should things go awry.

Reflecting now on our first vacation, I have to say that even if we are the same people, the same couple, on vacation as we are at home; that sameness, that reality, isn’t something to disregard. Someone once told me that happiness isn’t captured in smiles, but in the eyes that match those smiles. Looking at our pictures from that weekend, I see it in his eyes and mine. A record in time. A happy moment, treasured memory.

Holding that close, I know that no matter where we may travel together, who we are at home is pretty damn good and certainly nothing to shrug off. More than anything, I’m grateful for that, for what we share day in and day out.

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