Hi. My name is Caryn and I am an addict. Drugs? Not interested. Alcohol? I do love me some tequila, but no. Smoking, sex, gambling? Done that, like it as much as the next guy, does Candy crush count? No, I find myself caught up in a weird whirlwind of vacation planning. It usually starts about a year ahead of time and consists of hours on travel websites figuring out when we’re going, where we’ll stay, how many cities we can fit into the time we’ve got and how much time will be spent on the bus getting around. I love this. I will book and rebook hotels endlessly. It’s almost as good as the vacation itself. And of course, while I’m on vacation, I’m allowed not to worry about money or how fattening anything is. I’m in this world of suspended reality, where I can do whatever I want and deal with the consequences later. While I plan and travel and eat and spend, I feel like I’m having this big, full life! But later never actually comes. At 56, I should never be woken by the ding of an incoming text from Chase telling me my account is overdrawn. This feels bad. So I move money from my credit cards to my bank account and feel ashamed and scared. This feels bad. And I sit and plan the next vacation while I work my way through a box of Weight Watchers ice cream bars. This feels…surprisingly great! Until it doesn’t. What’s the investment? What’s the allure of the perpetual shame and fear? Maybe it’s the someday. As long as I have plans to get my shit together someday, I can’t die. I’ll live forever! But my somedays grow smaller and my debts grow bigger. My waistline expands. And I mutter “someday…someday!” like a talisman to ward off the monsters, while I keep running. Not letting the monsters get me.

The Monster Under the Bed carynjune