T-Minus 18 Days

Can you believe it? 18 days! That’s 432 hours and before I figure out how many minutes and seconds that is I’m going to stop right there.

But seriously. EIGHTEEN DAYS.

EIGHTEEN. And even so, I am as calm as a painting of a sailboat against a perfectly blue sky on a morning beatific in its Indian summer breeze.*

And to be honest, it’s kind of annoying.

I’m worried about my lack of worrying because I’m a born worrier. And here I am, worrying about not worrying.

Sure, I’m nervous but it’s the normal amount. Like visiting the dentist nervous. I keep waiting for the full-blown Panic Meltdown of 2009, that I’m sure WILL come, when my family will find me in fetal position on the floor, clutching a Space Bag. But when?

Because really, if I’m going to worry, I should worry now, 18 days ahead of time. My biggest fear is that I won’t be able to keep it together when I realize that I’m flying across the Atlantic, all by myself, to live in a country that doesn’t have Dr Pepper and OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE? TURN THE PLANE AROUND! I WANT MY MUM.

And so then I’ll be crying with my head against the window (I’m a window seat kind of person), stifling sobs and the perfectly normal stranger sitting next to me will look up from his/her Sudoko puzzle and the next thing you know I’ve asked this stranger to hold my hand. For 14 hours.

That’s going to be awkward.

Maybe the reason that I’m not worrying is because I’ve done my to-do list like the good girl that I am.

A place to live? Check. My flight and visa? Check, check. Suitcases? I have three of them.

I think I might have to add “worry a little” to the list.

Or I could just watch "Taken."



*Ani DiFranco reference. I can has gold star?



(photo via NewMensch)