The Wrong Vacation

As the Fallout reached its peak and ever so slowly began to wane, the Wedding Date loomed closer and closer. Out of nowhere, my mother decided to take action, to employ some evasive maneuvers, as it were. ("Out of nowhere" is not likely accurate. I was in my own little world of pajamas and pop and Sex and the City. EVERYthing was out of nowhere.) She suggested we go on a family vacation.

I was...unenthused with the prospect. My mother can drive me crazy sometimes, and I had, in fact, already made plans for myself for The Day, and they included much wallowing alone. I planned to disappear that day, drive aimlessly, go to the church and cry. The thought of a family vacation instead didn't exactly thrill me.

But mom was adamant, and kept suggesting destinations. None of them seemed especially appealing, until she hit upon Disney World. See, we never really took annual vacations as kids, probably because we lived in Texas and road-tripped to Minnesota for Christmas every year. That was enough of a vacation for our parents to have to deal with us on, so we never went places like Disney World. I did go to Disney World senior year of high school with orchestra, but it seems like a family vacation kind of destination. At her mention of it, my eyes lit up just a little, and I said, "hmm." That was all she needed.

I could produce no valid reason why we shouldn't go ("well, I really wanted to sit alone and cry that day" just didn't seem like it was going to cut it), so she planned and compared and clicked and booked, just as I had been doing for the previous 16 months, and suddenly there were definite plans in my future. The first definite plans since all my plans had been thrown out the window. Which, by the way, I just realized as I was typing it. I'm sure someday I'll figure out what the implications of that are.

Anyway, so I suddenly had these plans and I had to get off the couch and pack. So I did. And we were off to Orlando.

I can't tell you what the dates of our vacation were. I can't tell you which park we went to on which day. I can't tell you everything we ate, or did, or saw.

I know that in Epcot's Japan, we bought oysters that were opened in front of us and had necklaces made of the resulting pearl. I got a greenish-goldish colored pearl, in a much larger than average size. My sister, mom, and myself all had our pearls set in the same necklace setting. I was slightly jealous of my sister's blueish pearl; I love blue.

I know that I wore black on The Day, as a symbolic gesture for myself.

I know that all four of us stuffed ourselves into one teacup. And now I know that that is not a good idea!

I know that we convinced our parents to ride the Aerosmith roller coaster, and the resulting picture was so awesome that we bought it. I know also that we road DINOSAUR, and also bought that hilarious picture. (Did you know that I'm afraid of dinosaurs?)

I know we had fish and chips in "England," and we took a picture of me kissing a camel at the Aladdin ride. I know I bought a souvenir, a frame, that I haven't even unwrapped; it's hiding in the back of my closet. I know that we met up with some distant family members who live in Orlando, and Pam and I love our aunt-ish-lady who we never knew. I know that I bought a pair of red suede Kenneth Cole pumps that are to die for, but impossible to walk in.

I know that, when we flew home, our flight attendant was a bit surly, and I thought to myself, "Psh, I could do a better job than that."

I know that I did not have a single drop of alcohol or, as far as I remember, cry a single tear.

I also know, now, that this was the wrong vacation to take.

Most of the trip was spent in a depressed daze. I tried to pretend that wasn't true, I tried to be normal, but I'm not sure how good of a job I did. Clearly, there's not a whole lot of details I can give you about my vacation, though maybe that's normal after a year no matter the circumstances. I commented one day to my sister that Disney World wasn't really as fun and exciting as it seems like it should be, and maybe you just have to be younger to enjoy it.... or maybe, I realized after a short pause, you just have to not be me, right now, in the mental state I was in.

I will admit, however, that it got me off the couch. It got me outside. It got me smiling and laughing and eating and moving and breathing. It was the first tiny baby step that got me moving again, moving toward where I am now. In a sense, then, it was right, because clearly something had to give.

But, good or bad, right or wrong, perhaps most importantly, we all managed to make it through a multi-day stretch in Orlando without getting sunburned.

Irrational fear #16:

Getting rear-ended.

It's not such an irrational fear anymore, I guess, seeing as I did recently get rear-ended.

Oh, I didn't tell you about that? Right.

It was late at night, and I was driving home from my sister's house. The light I was driving toward turned yellow, and though I could have made it through, I decided to be responsible and stop. So I'm stopped at the light, there's no cars around, and I'm just waiting, when all of a sudden there's a noise and I'm jolted forward and there's a windshield in my rear-view mirror. I swore, put on my blinker, and pulled to the side of the side road.

This girl gets out of her car looking so terrified that, even though I was the one who got hit, the first thing I said was, "Are you alright?" She was young (I realize I'm young, too. I mean, she was clearly high school-ish age. I think.), and we determined that it was the first accident for either of us. We exchanged names, numbers, insurance information. We surveyed the cars and I was admittedly a little happy to note that hers appeared to have more damage than mine. Nicely done, car, way to be awesome. (My car still needs a name. Something fierce, because she has battle scars now. My dad suggested Elektra. Maude (Mod? Heh.) is also on the list. Any suggestions?)

I looked at my car again in the morning and saw that there was indeed some damage, but nothing really noticeable, and certainly nothing to file a claim over. So, incident forgotten, my car, her battle scars, and I have moved on.

Only now I'm paranoid. Even more so than I always sort of have been. I leave extra space between me and the car in front of me at lights, and I keep one eye in my rear-view mirror almost constantly. I yell at people who tailgate me on highways, and just am nervous in general.

I'm still a speeder, though. I never used to speed as much as I do lately, because I never used to have to drive during rush hour.

I think it's changed me, for the faster.

Dating is hard.

I've never done much of it, myself. Maybe that's why I find it so hard now. Or is it so hard because I've never really done it? Ah, paradox.

I've dated boys, kind of. Flirted, gone to dinner, called boys my "boyfriend." Or, sometimes, my "non-boyfriend." That one stuck around for a long time. But none of these things were ever real relationships, you know? There was always something off about them.

And then. Oooh, and then. When you find the man you plan on spending the rest of your life with, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most incredible feeling.

You start planning things. Your wedding, your life. You see things unfolding before you in such a glorious way. You're secure. You know where you're going, where your life is going. You're happy. Happy.

But then. When, in the space of five minutes, your entire world gets turned upside down and ripped apart and the love of your life has broken you, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most devastating thing.

You sit on your sister's couch and cry for weeks. You shower, occasionally, and then put your pajamas back on. You eat, when you feel you must. You stare, sometimes at the television, sometimes at nothing in particular, sometimes at words, empty words on a computer screen.

It changes you. So deeply, so completely.

You start to get over it. You put on real clothes and go outside. You go on a vacation (the wrong vacation, as it turns out - more on that later). You get cards and words of support and comfort. You put on a smile. You get a job, you move out of your high school bedroom (and into the basement, alas), and you just... try. You try to move on, to get on with things, to keep living.

I've done pretty well, I think. I love my job (most of the time), I've become even better friends with some fantastic people, I've realized how strong I can be, or apparently was all along. In some ways, I've really come into my own.

In a lot of ways, though, it's like I'm starting back from the beginning. I'm learning how to breathe, how to walk, how to move through life successfully.

Dating is not something I really excelled at in the first place, and now, now it terrifies me. Not that I've had a whole lot of opportunity to be actively afraid, until recently. I rebounded, I tried to put myself out there, kind of. With a safety net. A big huge safety net, and really no worries about my emotions at all. Things were going to happen, or they weren't, and either way, I was okay with it. Was I really just that laid-back about it, though, or had I sheltered myself? Have I built an insurmountable wall?

I met someone. Kind of. A passenger on my plane, who I had some really great conversation with. He waited for me to get off the plane at the end of the flight. We walked together. He asked for my number, and I gave it to him with a smile. As we walked away, he called out to me, "I promise I'll call!" And he did, within 12 hours. He left a very sweet message. I did not call him back. Yesterday, my phone rang. I picked it up to see who it was, and dropped it like a hot potato when I saw it was him.

Why am I so fucked up? Why can't I just take this opportunity and see what happens? Why can't I even let myself try to be happy?

I'm already finding things wrong with him, wrong with the situation, and I don't even know him. I don't even know him, it hasn't even started, and it's ruined in my head. I want to call him. Or, at the very least, I'm aware that I should want to call him. But the thought of picking up that phone... it sends me into a mild panic attack. So what do I do?

So far, nothing. I just do nothing. Because I'm paralyzed with fear, and doubt, and an inability to open myself to any possibility of good things because of the possibility of being hurt again. I cannot be hurt again. Not yet.

There are things that I want. Things I long for. But I think that I only let myself want things that, really, I know I can't have (or, deep down, don't really want, in the end). There's no fear of getting hurt that way.

I need some momentum. To break down these walls, that I've built around myself.

The trouble with English majors.

The thing about Literature (with a capital L) is, there's always more than one answer.

People say that there are no wrong answers, which is absolutely not true. But there certainly can be a plethora of right answers. There is always more than one way to read something, always more than one way to interpret this line or that, this reference or that combination of words that may or may not be a hidden reference. There's a whole world of possibility in every book, in every paragraph, and every interpretation can be argued and defended and appear equally right.

It's infuriating, really.

I got to a point in college when I longed for logic. A math class, a formula. Numbers, a right and a wrong answer. Results.

Sometimes the only way to know an author's true intention is to hear it from the horse's mouth, as it were. But what if s/he is long since dead and gone? Hope to hell they told someone else what they really meant? Or try to be content with the not knowing?

I myself don't really like the not knowing.

I should've majored in math.

Oh, hello July.

Ah, my dear readers. I apologize for my woeful absence. There is no excuse, really. Except that I don't think my life is exciting enough to blog about lately. But I could be wrong.

Did you know that when I have downtime at work (for example, I've finished my beverage service and there's still an hour left of flight time; we've just taken off, but we'll be landing in fifteen minutes, so I don't even have time to get out of my jumpseat; we've started our descent, I've made both pre-landing announcements, I've done my compliance checks, and now all there is to do is sit in my seat and wait), I often write down little tidbits to blog about later? Things that have happened to me, something I observed that day, or even just subjects I've been meaning to mention.

For example:

Little old man is reading Eclipse. Eclipse! Which means either he's very confused, or he's already read Twlight and New Moon! Love it.

The barf bag is not your personal garbage bag. Some people actually need to use those for their intended purpose, which is hard to do when it's missing from the pocket. If you don't intend to throw up in it, kindly leave it in the seat pocket for the next person.

And so on and so on.

The other day, a little old lady ("I'm almost 90," I overheard her tell someone) was sitting on my plane after everyone else was gone, waiting for wheelchair assistance. MSP is not often on the ball with wheelchair assistance, but that's a rant for another time. I sat across the aisle from her to chat while we waited (did you know it's illegal for me to get off the plane if there are still passengers onboard?). She told me about her son, and where she and her husband had been, and how that was the smoothest flight she'd ever had. Then she asked me some questions. "Did you make it through high school?" she wanted to know. I smiled a little, nodded, and said, "I'm 24." Her eyes widened and she actually let out a little gasp before telling me, "Oh! I thought you were 16!" I laughed and said I get that a lot, and proceeded to tell her yes, indeed, I went to and graduated from college, and certainly made it through high school.

It was only a little white lie. I'll be 24 in just over a week now. Around about the end of June every year, I start thinking of myself as the age I will be as of July 10 instead of the age I am until then.

Also, I thought 24 would be even more of a shock than 23, and I'm all about wowing people when I can.

Fun fact: I was due on July 4th. I was a procrastinator/sleep-in-er even before I was born! Can you imagine, though? I definitely would have believed that the fireworks were for me.

Five sure signs it's almost that time of month.

One: My boobs will be ginormous one day. I will definitely notice, and probably spend some time ogling myself in a mirror.

Two: One day, nothing will fit right. My pants will be too tight, my stomach will be visible in every shirt I try to wear. I will feel gross, and think to myself again how I really should start to work out. I will not make the connection until a couple days later.

Three: I will be super horny.

Four: I will have a LOT of extra road rage. A LOT. And I can have quite a bit to begin with.

Five: I will have a lot of extra rage in general, but mostly directed at my mother. By this time, I've usually figured out what's going on, and I feel guilty about the anger. But knowing doesn't actually make me not angry.

You'd think I'd just know to expect these things when I reach my sugar pills every month, but sadly, you would be wrong. Will I ever learn?

Wild-Eyed Bibliomaniac

Yesterday, I got an email coupon (say: KOO-pin) that I've been waiting a long time for: 40% off any one item at Borders.

Remember my Twilight obsession? I've been wanting to buy/read Stephenie Meyer's The Host ever since I finished Breaking Dawn (the second time), but ever the cheapskate, I didn't want to buy it at full price.

So I rallied myself (long story short, I had to call in sick for my trip that was supposed yesterday afternoon) and headed out.

My email koopin had also mentioned that all bargain books were buy two, get the third for free. I fully planned on ignoring that sale, as it just reeked of danger. But there were bargain books galore on shelves right in the door vestibule area as soon as I walked in, and obviously, I couldn't just ignore such a blatant display. I ended up with three books that I was super excited about. Sometimes I'll buy a bargain book just because it's a bargain, but these were books that I would have considered even at full price. I grabbed The Host, and I was out of there with four new, hardcover, awesome books for the low low price of $30! And there was much rejoicing.


The Host, Stephenie Meyer (author of Twlight); A Spot of Bother, Mark Haddon (author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which I loooooved); Flush, Carl Hiaasen (who I've always meant to read); Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathon Safron Foer (author of Everything is Illuminated).

Score.

Today, I went to lunch with my sister, and after a meal filled with much coffee and much sugar, I was too hyped up to just go home. We settled on the most dangerous place ever for the two of us: Half Price Books.

I'll save you the story this time and jump straight to the climax: for just $32, I got nine books, a movie, a magazine, and a reusable bag.



Score of scores. I am not allowed to buy another book for at least a month. At least a week, anyway.

While I'm on the subject, I'd like to recommend Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games. It's young adult fiction (my favorite genre), an easy, fast read, and it's fabulous. I read it in a day. Also, Christopher Moore. I love all his books, but I always recommend starting at the beginning and going in order, not because you need to, but because he likes to reuse characters, and it's more fun if you already know them. The beginning is Practical Demonkeeping.

For now, I'll leave you with this, a picture of the reusable bag I got for 98 cents (minus 20%, because it was extra-20%-off-everything day):

My kind of town.

Sometimes, if I think just one good sentence in my head, a whole post will blog itself.

Sometimes, if I just log on and start writing, the screen will suddenly be full.

Sometimes, I stare at a blank, white box for a long, long time.


On Wednesday, I made the split-second decision to go to Duluth for the day. I had been pondering it the night before, but some of my texts didn't send, and I wasn't sure if people would be available. I went to Verizon, I went to Target. It was a nice day, and it felt good to drive. I got back on the highway and decided, yes, I'm going to Duluth. Right now.

I got 45 miles to the gallon. I listened to mypod, spilling music wonderfully through my speakers (in my first car, I had a set of battery-operated speakers that I would hook mypod up to for drives). I almost got blown off the road by the wind.

I went on a walk, I went to Green Mill, I went to the house with the murder room, I went to the house of brews. Er, the Brew House. I was going to leave that night, the better to be back in town to meet my grandma for lunch on Thursday. But I was ginger-peer-pressured and group-voted into getting tossed and staying the night.

So I did.

It was magical. I love Duluth. I love those people. I loved the whole world on my drive back home the next morning. I didn't have even a hint of a hangover (well, maybe a tiny hint, but not for long), I had a McDonald's breakfast burrito digesting away. The wind was gone, so the drive was smooth and easy. Mypod was being cooperative and playing great songs. The trees were varied and gorgeous shades of green. My favorite lake to drive past was looking fresh and vibrant. (I'm unsure what lake it is. Every time I drive by it, I think, "One of these days I'll get off at the next exit, find it, and take pictures." It's at mile-marker 220.)

Remember the seven-touches-a-day thing? These are the people with whom I can be close and connected. These are the people that breathe new life into me when I need it the most.

One asked me when I was moving back. I told her that when I win the lottery, I'll buy a house up there and visit all the time. "Just for the summer? Come stay up here," she tried to coerce me.

The city itself makes me happy, feels like home. It feels familiar (though still annoying) to drive up and down the pothole-infested roads. It's natural to drive downtown, park at Fitgers, and walk past the store with window manikins that always make me drool. The air revitalizes me with every breath. I don't know how I live without that lake in my backyard at home. As soon as I turn that corner on the highway (if you've ever driven there, you know the one), I feel calm, happy, home.

I'd give my right arm to live up there again, just for the summer. Or just for ever.

Seven.

I remember hearing somewhere once that a person should get seven touches a day. Hugs, handshakes, pats on the back, whatever, as long as it's physical contact. I don't recall what the exact reasoning was, but I don't think that's important, because the concept makes sense to me. I start to feel detached if I don't have some sort of physical contact with people, like I'm not actually connected to the world around me, but just floating about in it, somehow.

When I lived with my fiance, the seven touches a day thing was no problem. There were hugs and kisses and holding hands and hands on knees in cars and a whole realm of physicality between us. I didn't have to worry. I always felt connected. Grounded. Present.

It helped that I lived in the same town as all of my friends, and a lot of us are very touchy-feely people anyway, with hugs abounding. (Abounding? Is that even a word?)

Now, however. Now I have none of that. No live-in man who is required to touch me at least occasionally. No hug-happy friends nearby at all times. Some days I force my cuddling upon Jess, who tolerates me. Some days I shake hands with pilots. Some days I get hugs from people at church, and often from my parents. But it doesn't seem the same. It doesn't seem like enough. How can it be, when it sends a shock through me when a nice old man squeezes my arm as he leaves the plane? How can I be getting enough contact with the world when it startles me when my knee brushes a passenger's as I walk down the aisle of my plane? Clearly, it's just not. It's not enough.

Last night, I hung out with a very friendly group of people, half of which I barely even know. We all got a little bit tipsy, and after five hours of chatting and laughing and drinking, the night ended with hugs everywhere, between everyone. People I had just met hugged me. People I've known since seventh grade hugged the breath right out of me. And this after a night of casual contact, hands on arms during a story, arms around shoulders, hands on knees to make a point. Last night, with a large group of fairly random people, I felt grounded, connected, wonderful.

Why doesn't the world hug more? I think I would be a much happier person if my world involved constant hugging.

I want to feel like that all the time again.

I wish I had a tidbit.

What might one find at the Bosnian Supermarket?

Sometimes, I just really dislike driving with certain people. I think they are not good drivers, and I would rather be in my own car. My mother, for example, is not my favorite person to be a passenger with.

Since neither of us will be home on Mother's Day, I took my mom to see a movie tonight. "Ghost of Girlfriends Past." It was pretty good. I probably would have laughed at more parts had my mother not been the person sitting next to me, but I'm glad we went. She probably needs to get out more.

Today started out as a very bad hair day. It ended up pretty damn good, though. I've been loving my hair lately.

I'm much more productive when my sister has stolen my laptop and I haven't made the trek to go reclaim it. I cleaned my room hardcore yesterday. It needed it more than words can tell you. I've been doing laundry all day today. I'm still not even done, with both the laundry and the room-cleaning. My underwear drawer has never looked better, though.

When Circuit City was going out of business, I bought the most recent Hush Sound cd. Why I didn't purchase it sooner is beyond me; I love The Hush Sound a lot. Why I didn't even open the cd until is yesterday is even more baffling. I absolutely love it.

People keep trying to add me as a friend on facebook. Nice people, people that I know. People that don't need to see the kinds of pictures I have on facebook. So do I add them, and limit what they can see? Ignore their requests and keep my friends strictly college-only, as facebook was originally intended? Do I delete the incriminating pictures that are not classy but are, nevertheless, part of my history and evolvement? Or do I just blog about the conundrum and make up words like evolvement?

Flight attendants have to deal with a surprising amount of paperwork. Where do they expect me to keep it all? I don't have an empty file cabinet laying around, begging to be filled with green papers.

Who the hell gets colds in May anyway? It feels like it's on its way out. I sure hope it is. I have to work tomorrow, and passengers don't like a snotty flight attendant.

Oh, the layers!