Did someone say group trip? Yes please, Abilene paradox. We should absolutely go to an undisclosed location for an undisclosed price to sleep in various uncomfortable configurations and spend unmitigated time together with unexpressed needs simmering and expressed needs exploding. This will be so fun.
A weekend away from everything that keeps us regulated and appearing sane is exactly how the twelve of us should bulldoze our nascent, blissfully untested friendship.
Let’s find a cabin. Somewhere woodsy (but not so woodsy that there’s a chance of bears, unidentified sounds in the night, bats, ticks, Trump signs), quiet (but not so quiet that the desperation of isolation creeps into our hearts), away from everything (yet also walkable to a body of water, at least one bespoke boutique, a highly rated Pilates studio, an affordable natural wine bar, and a Whole Foods). And obviously, the “cabin” must have the basics: a full chef’s kitchen, an aesthetically pleasing fireplace, a woodstove, a pool, a hot tub, a sauna, a steam room, two premium rolls of toilet paper per person, and a jaunty-colored record player.
Obviously, let’s not decide on sleeping arrangements until we get there. Hundred-percent chance we’ll show our generous, self-sacrificial selves after the 5.765-hour drive to our very affordable mountain-cabin-modern-beachhouse. It totally won’t be a desperate assault of real and made-up-on-the-spot ailments that require a king bed and bedroom all to oneself. The eight losers can cram into the kids’ room. Triple bunk beds? Delightful. Like capri pants, our ankles will stick out. The winners of the solo bedroom showdown will absolutely make up for their abject selfishness by cooking, cleaning, paying more, and acting like team players. Zero worries there.
So we have gluten, lactose, meat, and alcohol intolerances? And intolerances to intolerances? Terrific! Behold: a shopping list that consists solely of cream, heavy cream, whipping cream, pork belly, sourdough, and 200-yr-old Bordeaux. Something for everyone!
Several of us have voiced a need to keep costs down. Others of us have displayed impeccable taste, planned our shopping exclusively at organic dairy farms, butcheries, and the wine vault of Château La Mission Haut-Brion, and won’t disclose the grocery total until the end of the trip. Naturally, we’ll split costs evenly.
The actual trip, one month later…
Alright, time for forced activities. Throw those books away and put on your peer-pressured party hats. Our game choices are: overly complicated or horribly offensive! Here, let’s pick teams so anyone who’s picked last and therefore can’t play because it exceeds the player count can slink off to their bedroom directly adjacent to the living room, which is now filled with the squeals and shouts of tension release and overtired exuberance that cannot be drowned out by earplugs, headphones, or sobs of despair. After, let’s trade body shots of Bordeaux in the sauna, then bring the party back inside.
Oh? Some of you planned a sunrise hike? Sorry. Your desires have no chance against the full frontal assault of all our fun.
The exalted of us (the solo bedroom contingent) wake blearily in the night and ask the 8.5 people in the bunk bed room to keep it down, as 11.5 hours of sleep are required and our circadian rhythms are suffering because our incredibly spacious rooms lack Vanta black blinds.
Wait, is everyone in the kids’ room cuddling? What’s that? The bunk bed platforms broke, so you’re stacked on top of each other like Pringles? Hmmm, we can’t hear you over the mantra: Our needs come before yours.
You know what’s sure to solve the bleariness from no sleep and the wanness from no food? Hot yoga. Isn’t the fire charming?
What’s that? The bunk bedders have become a waterfall of sweat? Sorry, we can’t hear over the sound of cardboard crackling in the woodstove. And by cardboard, we mean the gluten-free bread someone (with “celiac disease”/weak guts) smuggled from Brooklyn. It wasn’t even organic. Now we can enjoy heart attack-inducing exercise without leaving the house, which is ideal since there isn’t hot yoga nearby, just, sigh, Pilates.
Oh, it’s ten minutes until check out. Time to take a long, luxurious, no-concept-of-water-tank-capacity shower that leaves a teaspoon of piss-warm water for everyone else and one soggy towel.
Also, how about we make things logistically exciting? Let’s change who is in which car and leaving at what time to shred any remaining scrap of hope. The driver from Jersey will crisscross New York City to Connecticut, to Bushwick, and back again because won’t that be a final, crucial friendship experience, figuring out who should pay for which toll and why? This is called bonding. Forced proximity in cars filled with spite—now we’re just like family.
Remember, a group trip isn’t a success unless we keep track of who helped out and how much and then adjust our levels of trust/closeness/fraternal love accordingly.
Now pick up those phones and proceed to ignore the passive-aggressive Venmo requests for the next six months.
