Buy An Island?

I recently read an article advertising buying your own island. I have to say it is not one of those things I ever really want to do.

As a child I sometimes pretended that I ran the world, via Dr. Seuss's suggestive little story, but it was a simple world where I punched invisible buttons on the bathroom wall to talk to my subjects and give them instructions.

As an adult I ran a household for many years and believe me, it did not provide the kind of high I suspect most despots are looking for. Sure, I was right at the top of the list when we decided where to go on vacation, but I was also right at the top of the list when it came to who forgot to buy toilet paper, or who needed to deal with the newly laid sod when it developed grub worms.

A few years ago I thought I wanted my own little place out in the country. Just an acre or so, that I could call my own. It turned out that ruling a kingdom whose coffers are sadly lacking in gold is a lot of work. Sure, there was a sunflower labyrinth and idyllic little bird feeders and houses here and there that reminded me of Camelot, but the leaves did not blow themselves away at sunset and the grass grew at such a frantic rate that most of my duties involved mowing it. The little Disney deer that came around at sunset and ate the peony bushes did not salve my aching muscles, or sun burnt nose and the snake people who inhabited assorted dark corners and ditches were a constant source of shock to my system.

Buying an island does not mean freedom from worldly distractions and peace to me. I remember what it was like to just have a large swimming pool. People I had forgotten were seventh cousins by marriage remembered me. Forget long lazy afternoons floating under the shade of a little leaf linden. There were towels to wash and dry, refrigerators to stock and insurance to buy in case someone drinking my beer slipped into the deep end and did not return soon enough. An island would be like putting an afternoon in the pool under a magnifying glass. Guests would need to be picked up and ferried back and they would be unlikely to leave in the evenings, so there would be dinners to serve, beds to make and, unless I could afford a bevy of servants, I would be the hostess with the mostest -- chores.

It kind of amazes me when I read about how I, too, could own an island and realize I don't want one. For all the romantic notions that go along with it, I am past the point where that is a dream. Instead, I prefer the coziness of my apartment and the ability to have enough freedom to go enjoy other people's islands, or woods, or even parks. I don't mind sharing anymore. Owning comes with way too many responsibilities.