I hate schedules. Lord, do I ever hate them. I’ve always been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda guy, and it’s worked out alright for me so far. Planning just delays the more important stuff; schedules just get in the way of my freedom.
There are very few things I mark on my calendar. Exams, deadlines, and birthdays? Let’s hope I remember them. But I have a few traditions, and I’ll be dead before I mess with those.
Two years ago, for the sake of my sanity, I needed to get out of Vancouver. So, my parents forfeited a romantic weekend in Whistler and donated it to two friends and me for my birthday in November (the chocolates and wine on the bed pillow were a nice touch). Since then, those Whistler trips have grown from three people to 12 to 17.
Just about a year ago, I went out for beers with a couple of friends from this publication, and little did we know it was the start of a weekly gathering, which became something of an institution that we called Wednesday Friendsday. It took some 16 months — and them moving out of Burnaby — for it to end.
Every Wednesday night I knew where I was going to be and who I was going to be with.
One year ago, over Thanksgiving, another two friends and I threw some junk in a car and drove north. We didn’t have a destination, just a direction. This Thanksgiving, we did something similar, the only difference being we headed west — and planned a little tiny bit.
This isn’t a nose-up, eyes-down article telling you my way of life is the only way of life. It’s an attempt to show the value of establishing tradition in your life.
Perhaps Wednesday Friendsday is the best example: every Wednesday night, I knew where I was going to be, and who I was going to be with. The people I shared those 70-odd Wednesdays with are, without a doubt, some of my closest friends, ones I might not have seen on a regular basis otherwise — but I never had to worry about that. It became incredibly important to us; it was borderline sacrilegious to miss a week, no matter the reason.
That may seem extreme — it’s just one week, you might say — but establishing that tradition was essential to the survival of the event, and maybe even our friendships.
The road trip is a way for me to, again, spend some time with close friends, but also to get out of my comfort zone, disconnect from the digital world, and introduce a little adventure into my life (fishing in grizzly country!) Whistler is a time, amidst midterms and dreary weather, to let loose and celebrate.
None of those three events require much thought anymore; they’re embedded in my routine. It’s no longer a question of “if,” but “when.”
Traditions can keep you close, no matter how far they take you.
