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[existentialsolitude]

our life pt. 1

story time about the love of my life.

Our flight on Tuesday is supposed to leave at 9:20 a.m. the chauffer pulls up around our driveway at 8:00. I practically skip out the door. Early morning travel makes me giddy. You look utterly disgusted with the morning – I may or may not have woken you up three times last night because I could sleep. I feel bad so I walk over and give you a big kiss right in front of the car. I see a hint of a smile. Good enough for me.

The fog is still dissipating as we drive through the mountains. The landscape is jaw-dropping as usual, but I can’t take my mind off the city. As we drive through Denver I can already feel the electricity in my fingers. Our car stops at Denver International and I can feel thousands of feet stepping to the same beat. Every mind at work, every heart set on a destination. So inspiring it is to witness the motivation of a business suit and a briefcase. I’m wearing my Alexander Wang pantsuit, my hair in a hurried bun, and sunglasses to cover sleepless eyes. You’re in dark brown dress pants and a navy blue Ralph Lauren polo. How posh. I sense heads turn and the eyes of jealous onlookers. Nothing new. I like the attention and I’m not afraid to admit it. We don’t work our asses off to look mediocre.

I flash a smile at the airport attendant who checks our luggage. She smiles back. My mood is contagious. Something about the hustle-bustle of travel kicks the adrenaline in. I know you can tell, too. You put a hand around my waist and pull me closer – almost aggressively. I grab your arm and squeeze. Our body language puts dirty thoughts in my head. It’s not the time, but I can’t wait for when it is. I think about my hands on your arms and holding you down on the bed. My tongue tracing circles on your neck while you moan for more. I can feel your hips –

“Honey, let’s go.” Woops. Carried away in my thoughts.

We don’t have to wait for our flight. It’s a private airline. I know the owner from college so we get first class seats. We step onto the plane and it turns to gold. Faces of flight attendants light up. They recognize us from the magazines. From the business articles. From their newsfeed. From Forbes’s “Top 10 Power Couples” (we were number three this year).

A young man holds a notepad and asks us what we’d like to drink. Before I can open my mouth you say “She’ll have a cosmo. I’ll take rum and coke, thank you.” I pout at you and you smile. Dazzling. “What if I wanted something different?” I ask sarcastically. You roll your eyes. I always order a cosmo.

We talk for a while about the trip. There’s a few friends in town I want to see while you go to meetings. On Thursday I’m going to meet with some designers to help collaborate on our re-opening of the property in South Carolina. Big week. We talk business for so long I don’t even notice the plane hit forty thousand feet. You have a way of doing that. Of distracting me from the bad things. I can talk to you for hours and never get bored. We could be in a white-walled room with nothing but ourselves and be entertained for hours and hours (and no I’m not talking about sex, either). When I hear your voice or lay in your arms I feel like there is no evil in the world. Like nothing could ever hurt us as long as we’re together.

Before we touch down at the O’Hare International Airport, I practically jump out of the plane before it lands. I turn to look at you and you’re gazing out the window - looking toward the skyline. The buildings are tall, but they don’t tower nearly as high as we do. We have dreams of owning skyscrapers but we already own the city. Everything is ours for the taking. We’ll buy it and treat it well. King and Queen Midas stepping onto the terminal. But gold is old and this is new money in our pockets. The streets turn to diamond.

Our hotel is the definition of lavish. Frank Sinatra plays in the Grand Entrance Hall (because “Lobby” wasn’t fancy enough). Light pink marble adorns every wall, pillar, and staircase. Velvet loveseats of magenta and emerald sit under the crown-moldings on the ceiling. A glass elevator in the center of the foyer takes guests up to the 46th floor. Standing just beside the elevator, you can look up and see the sun shine through the pool’s glass bottom at the very top of the building. Architects from Dubai helped me design it. The Hall is decorated with chandeliers imported from the Royal Palace in Madrid. If you ride the elevator high enough, you can look down and there’s a sea of crystal. The marble turns white as you travel up the floors. Like you’re ascending into the clouds. Or ascending into luxury. Our hotel is an escape. Travel is about escaping your life, escaping reality. This place is nothing short of a dream. I dream of something and we make it happen. Success laces our subconscious and it seems that every card we play is the right move. Some say we’re privileged, but we’ve come to learn that luck and hard-work go hand in hand.

They know us when we walk in. My heels click-clack on the marbled illustrations, designed by a French artist no one knows. Our bags are taken graciously and we stop at the check-in counter not to check-in to our room but to check in on our employees. They’re professional and charismatic. Straight from a magazine titled “Luxury.” We catch up and laugh. The laughter echoes through the halls and suddenly it’s ten degrees warmer. The crystal catches more light and the sun shines brighter. Smiles appear on more faces. We greet guests as we walk to the elevator and make our way up to the 46th floor.

The Executive Suite doesn’t disappoint. Whether you’re an executive of business or an executive of the theater – people (very rich people) come from thousands of miles to stay here. Leo DiCaprio, the Clintons, Christiana Figueres, Prince William, and even the King and Queen of Jordan. But today, we’re the royalty. I have a permanent closet stored at this hotel – my “Chicago” wardrobe. Our butler, Jeremy, rolls in my favorite evening gowns and hands you a few hangers with various tuxedos. Our business clothes will arrive later. We let the clothes hang in the closet. We’re to wear them to a gala tonight hosted by the owner of a famous restaurant in New York. Chefs from all around are hearing about our plans to re-cater our properties. The gala starts at 7:00. But we always arrive fashionably late. Who doesn’t in the city?

We unpack a bit and then go to relax on the bed; I still get jetlagged after all the years of traveling. My mind wanders for a while. It’s nice to finally sit alone with you. I grab the “Ritz Magazine” off the bedside table (it was put there prior to our arrival – as requested) and flip through the pages of British fashion and European art. Extravagant ideas hop through my brain. I think about taking a trip to London to get inspired. I’m about to ask if you’d like to come with me, but I’m interrupted by your hand on my thigh. Surprised, I set the magazine down and turn my head to the gorgeous man beside me. You put the other hand on my waist and turn so that your mouth can meet my neck. Your tongue makes me dizzy. I sink into the silk comforter. I let my hands run down your body. The Executive Suite never disappoints.

[existentialsolitude]

this journey

I read an article today in The Atlantic about the psychological benefits of being alone. Two things stuck out to me.

1) I love being alone.

2) I have been nurtured and trained to despise being alone.

It’s an unpopular opinion to admit right now. Especially from a college freshman, just beginning her journey of “finding herself.” Whether it’s my teachers, my peers, or my RA in my dorm, I am constantly told how to find myself. They say “Join a club.” They say “Meet new people.” For some reason, the way to find myself turns into the way that others define me. The things I do to relax or have fun have been twisted into always being with other people. I define myself by the groups I am with. I become the people I hang out with. What happened to this world that made every positive aspect of being alive into a social event?

God forbid I tell someone I want to spend a Saturday night alone. The responses come close to hateful. I am rejected. I am taken as a joke: “Don’t be seen with her, she’s a loner.”

Since when did solitude become an act of socially isolating oneself? Since when did I become expected to be constantly checking up with others to keep my relationships alive? If I don’t make a Facebook post for a while, people ask “Are you okay?” As if my survival depends on clicking the “Submit” button once a day.

This is the stigma I am aiming to end. Group activities, organizations, social events, friend groups, etc. – they are all valuable. In fact, in today’s world they are more important than almost any other aspect of our lives. I go to business classes every day where they teach me how to talk. How to turn myself into the perfect communicator. How to exactly read other people so I can tailor the words coming out of my mouth to better persuade them. This is life. But I want to change the expectations. All of the social parts of our lives, while they may be important, are overbearing. It is damaging to tell a maturing young adult that they must always be in the public eye. Not only that, but it creates a narrow perspective on the world. Tell me to start belonging, or to begin my adaptation of the groups I am with, and my personality becomes that. I live in a dimension that is perfectly defined by a certain group of people. And what happens when we are expected to act and think and speak like the people we are with? Discrimination, indifference, incompetence, unwillingness to understand others. There is an abundance of communication – but also a lack thereof.

 I am studying a topic that requires me to delve into the minds of others and understand what motivates them, what scares them, and their deepest understanding of the world.

This is a journey of one person who is committed to finding herself, by herself, in a social environment where the complexity of relying on others is fundamental to success. This is a story that is common but rarely spoken of. It is known but unheard of.

This is a story of someone who is unbelievably intrigued by relationships and social development in the modern world, but is excruciatingly annoyed by social expectations.

I hope to share bits and pieces of myself along the way as I start my search for them.

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