Away From Home

Relearning How to Love Nights Out

My book group consists of five women who meet once a month for dinner. We take turns hosting. The evening starts early (6:30) and ends early (generally by 9:00). Last night, for the first night since last fall, we met in person. Like a mollusk routed from its shell, I felt existentially threatened, my soft untested parts exposed. I would not be home in my favorite spot to watch Jeopardy with Sam. My vanilla ice cream would sit idle on the freezer shelf. I had to talk myself into putting on some earrings and a decent sweater.

Of course, I put this in rational context and felt like a jerk. I mean, in Ukraine, families are preparing for possible invasion. Some number of them will leave their familiar homes to face mortal peril and hardship, as opposed to a few hours in a good friend’s home to eat, drink, and chat about a book.

My misgivings evaporated the moment we arrived. The dining room table was set, pasta was served. There were fancy cupcakes for dessert. From the second we sat down, there wasn’t an awkward moment. Well, maybe a couple, but we are all out of our elements. Conversationally, we were gentle with each other.

Somehow, I relaxed into the uncustomary adventure of being in a place not my own, with folks who are not immediate family. We talked about politics, our kids, and what we hope the warmer weather will bring. Oh, and also, the book. We have been cooped up too long.

After a couple of hours I started feeling restless, a homing pigeon impulse striking early-bird Cinderella. As the hour hand approached nine, I started itching to get home. I imagined myself turning into a sweatpantsed pumpkin. I missed my dog and parking my ass on the rug in front of a chair with a pillow behind my back to watch TV.

I got home and it was like I never left. Spouse on the couch, dog with gas. On the television, a Norwegian police show with only a few minutes left. Shifting into sweatpants and a comfortable cardigan, I found my well-worn groove with a dish of ice cream. You have to go out to come back in, right? Strangely, home didn’t fit quite as perfectly as I remembered in the nostalgic throes of separation anxiety. Cozy, as it turns out, is a distant, albeit much more pleasant, relative of stuck.

Last night reminded me that we are all learning how to be in the outside world again. It looms, first frightening, then exhilarating, then too much. We retreat, and the reentry can feel small, more airless than we idealized. We are relearning anticipation, landings and transitions, so we might rekindle the joy in being together. It takes courage, this collective rehabilitation, and commitment, but when we keep at, I have no doubt we will find our way back home in the world.