Or
The Things We Think and Do Not Say
Remember that? It was the title of Jerry McGuire’s “Mission statement.” You know, the one that got him fired and thus set the whole story in motion. I loved that movie. And I always particularly liked the title of Jerry’s little memo. It appropriately jumps into my head when I’m thinking something I know better than to say. Such as, “Did you mean to do that to your hair?” or “You’re gonna marry him?” or lately, “Can we go back to America now?”
We all do it. We have thoughts we have no control over. Even the nicest girl (ahem) has thoughts that aren’t so nice. Does that mean her nice exterior is a fraud? Is she really just as bitchy as the next chick? Or does her guilt about said thoughts atone for the thoughts themselves, therefore redeeming her niceness? It’s tricky, see? What makes someone nice? How they act or how they think? And then there are those girls who whole heartedly embrace their bitchiness – they allow it to define them the way I have defined myself with this nice-girl routine. I envy those girls. In fact, my best friends are usually those girls. I love to hear them vocalize my inner thoughts. To hear Katie say that Janine looks like she let a blind guy do her makeup and not have to admit that I’ve had the very same thought about Janine (because that would be mean), well, it’s liberating somehow.
I’m straying off course. The thing is, despite my protests to the contrary, I am having secret remorseful thoughts about my move to Africa. I don’t even believe in regrets, but I’m having these terrible thoughts. The things we think but do not say.
It’s pointless, I realize that. And I’m sure it’s temporary too. Everyone has second thoughts about big decisions right? It’s like I said months ago, my grass has always looked greener elsewhere…and this is no different. I suppose the only thing that’s remarkable about this particular hidden thought is the very fact that I feel the need to keep it hidden. But who am I hiding it from? My family? My friends? Why? If I’ve learned anything so far on this planet it’s that my friends and family will always love and support me…and they’ll never say I told you so. They might think it (the things we think but do not say!), but they’ll love me no matter what, and even if I came crawling home after only a year in Africa, I believe most of them would still respect me and the choices I have made.
And yet, I am terrified to say it out loud.
I suppose, I am most afraid of sharing my secret regret with my husband. Certainly, we all have a tendency to keep our darkest thoughts hidden, but for me, when I found Roger I found the one person to whom I could reveal everything. No secrets. And yet suddenly, I can’t have a conversation with the love of my life without biting my tongue in fear that “the things we think but do not say” will slip out of my mouth. Because I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want him to worry. I don’t want him to be angry.
Okay, yes. As most of you know, Roger is very aware of this blog, so if I actually find the courage to publish this much too personal whine-fest, well, the big secret will be out. Not that it’s much of a secret anyway. If I’m honest with myself, and if Roger could be honest, we’ve both known for awhile that I feel this way; we just haven’t said it out loud. We don’t discuss it – probably because there is nothing to be done about it. We’re here. We’ve started a life. And we’re okay, I guess.
This is when I miss my girlfriends. If Katie was here we would analyze the situation for hours, and although it wouldn’t change anything, it would make me feel better simply to have fleshed things out. But because the very definition of man is “problem solver,” to discuss all these feelings with Roger would be a futile experience. He would get frustrated because there is no solution. Why talk about a problem with no answer? We can’t pack up and move home at the moment. In a few years, yes. But not now.
God, even if we could…would I want to move home right now? The answer seems obvious, and yet, I think I’m enjoying all of this forced introspection. I feel like I’m growing…or something. So while I may want to go home, maybe I’m not ready just yet. The thought is definitely there, but when it comes down to it – I suppose I wouldn’t change my current situation. It’s like therapy…it’s not fun, but it’s good for you. It’s probably not, however, good for you, the ‘audience’ of this little blog. I know there must be limits to your tolerance of my inner drama. I can only imagine your secret thoughts: “God, would she just get over herself already!” On the other hand, part of me has to believe that at least a few of you are enjoying my overly introspective ramblings…right?
Okay, well just in case, I promise to be more entertaining next week.
I’ll try anyway.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The bitchy one.
This week, I wrote two blogs. The first one was a bit whiny. And way too personal. So I attempted to write another. After evaluating both of them, I was frustrated. One was whiny and the other was bitchy. Why this surprised me, I'm not sure, because if I'm honest, lately I've kinda been a ...well, you get my point. But here goes. The bitchy one won out...
I’ve never been a very good driver. No major car-totaling wrecks so far (knock on wood) but I do tend to bump into things occasionally. Mailboxes, poles, cement columns, construction trailers…mostly stationary objects. Despite this tendency, I have – so far in my life – managed to back out of all my parking spaces without hitting any other cars. It’s not too terribly difficult. I’m sure most of you can spout the same record.
In South Africa, however, backing out of a parking space requires personal counsel. In almost every parking lot, you can be sure to find a “parking attendant” who will not only show you where to park (because with thirty-seven spaces available, how should you know which one to choose?), but he will also stand behind your car and direct you as to when and how to back out of the space when you are ready to leave. For this service, he requires a fee – at your discretion, of course – but should you choose to return to that parking lot when he is once again on duty, well, you better hope you have paid him appropriately.
It’s a service that you have no choice but to receive. South Africans hardly notice it. Every time they back out of a spot they routinely roll down their window and offer a two or five Rand coin to this annoying stranger. But that’s just it – he’s not annoying to them. He’s a fixture. He’s the parking lot attendant.
I know I sound bitchy, but it’s not about the money. It’s the principal of the matter. The thing is, I don’t need your help, Buddy. I got it. I’m fine.
I acknowledge that my irritation may seem a little ridiculous. In fact, I often find myself trying to “sneak” past the attendant on my way back to the car. If he’s on the other side of the parking lot when I’m backing out, well, he can hardly expect payment now can he? But he inevitably spots me before I’m completely out of the space. He sprints over to 'help' and sure enough, I feel the need to roll down my window and toss a coin at him. I can rarely even muster a 'thanks' because quite honestly, I’m not thankful.
He sometimes doubles as a sort of 'bag boy' too. Now, perhaps I should be grateful that he is trying to expand his usefulness, but come on, I’ve usually managed to get the grocery bags and the shopping cart all the way down the elevator from Woolworth's and halfway across the parking garage before the attendant spots me. He runs to my rescue and takes the cart as I unlock the car. I tell him I’m fine, really, but he says nothing and scoots me out of the way while he places the bags in the trunk and I frantically look in my wallet for some change to give him for a service I, once again, don’t actually need. I mean really, the hard part isn’t transferring the bags from the cart to the trunk. If he wants to come home with me and help me carry them from the trunk to my kitchen and then put them away…well, for that I’d give him ten Rand, but this?
And it’s not just parking lot attendants. It’s the gas station too. Do you know I haven’t pumped my own gas since I moved to South Africa? It’s not laziness, people – there’s no option to do it yourself. You pull up, someone directs you where to go, they ask what you need, they take your gas card, they wash your windows, they check your tires. It’s nice, I guess, but once again, I can do it myself, thanks. But I don’t – actually, I’m not allowed to – so once the credit card slip is signed I find myself handing over a fiver for a service that I didn’t request.
I know pointless services happen in America too. The bathroom attendant comes to mind. There’s nothing more irritating than feeling obliged to leave a dollar in a basket because some joker has handed me a paper towel. But that was never an every day thing…at least not for someone like me who rarely went to clubs or fancy bars. The parking lot attendant though…there he is. Every time. Everywhere.
Am I just being cheap? I don’t think so. To prove it’s not about the money, I will cite an example that doesn’t even require tipping. The movie theater. When the show is over, I routinely reach down to pick up the empty popcorn tub and diet coke, and each time, Roger has to remind me to leave it. There aren’t any large trash cans at the exit in which I could deposit the evidence of my overindulgence anyway. The staff will come in afterward to collect trash and clean up. Sure, movie theaters in America have a clean up crew too, but here, you’re really not even supposed to pick up your trash. My sister-in-law scolded me the first time we went to the theater together. “What are you doing, man? This is Africa; you could put someone out of a job for doing that.”
She's right, I guess. I'm starting to recognize that all of this willingness to 'help' is probably a good thing. These people aren’t stealing or living off the government. They are eager to work for their money…it’s not really work that needs to be done, in my opinion, but it creates a job in an economy that desperately needs them. So, I guess I’m just a bitch. In my defense, however, I can promise you that I will continue to hand over a five Rand whenever someone transfers my groceries from the cart to the trunk. And I will leave my trash behind at the movie theater. I will not pump my own gas. I will continue to contribute to the South African economy.
But I’m afraid the attempt to hide from the parking lot attendant is instinctual. And maybe kinda fun. Hell, if I look at it that way, I suppose if he can catch me he deserves the five Rand.
And at least as long as I’m here, perhaps I will maintain my good record of parking lot performances. And that’s a good thing… I guess…
I’ve never been a very good driver. No major car-totaling wrecks so far (knock on wood) but I do tend to bump into things occasionally. Mailboxes, poles, cement columns, construction trailers…mostly stationary objects. Despite this tendency, I have – so far in my life – managed to back out of all my parking spaces without hitting any other cars. It’s not too terribly difficult. I’m sure most of you can spout the same record.
In South Africa, however, backing out of a parking space requires personal counsel. In almost every parking lot, you can be sure to find a “parking attendant” who will not only show you where to park (because with thirty-seven spaces available, how should you know which one to choose?), but he will also stand behind your car and direct you as to when and how to back out of the space when you are ready to leave. For this service, he requires a fee – at your discretion, of course – but should you choose to return to that parking lot when he is once again on duty, well, you better hope you have paid him appropriately.
It’s a service that you have no choice but to receive. South Africans hardly notice it. Every time they back out of a spot they routinely roll down their window and offer a two or five Rand coin to this annoying stranger. But that’s just it – he’s not annoying to them. He’s a fixture. He’s the parking lot attendant.
I know I sound bitchy, but it’s not about the money. It’s the principal of the matter. The thing is, I don’t need your help, Buddy. I got it. I’m fine.
I acknowledge that my irritation may seem a little ridiculous. In fact, I often find myself trying to “sneak” past the attendant on my way back to the car. If he’s on the other side of the parking lot when I’m backing out, well, he can hardly expect payment now can he? But he inevitably spots me before I’m completely out of the space. He sprints over to 'help' and sure enough, I feel the need to roll down my window and toss a coin at him. I can rarely even muster a 'thanks' because quite honestly, I’m not thankful.
He sometimes doubles as a sort of 'bag boy' too. Now, perhaps I should be grateful that he is trying to expand his usefulness, but come on, I’ve usually managed to get the grocery bags and the shopping cart all the way down the elevator from Woolworth's and halfway across the parking garage before the attendant spots me. He runs to my rescue and takes the cart as I unlock the car. I tell him I’m fine, really, but he says nothing and scoots me out of the way while he places the bags in the trunk and I frantically look in my wallet for some change to give him for a service I, once again, don’t actually need. I mean really, the hard part isn’t transferring the bags from the cart to the trunk. If he wants to come home with me and help me carry them from the trunk to my kitchen and then put them away…well, for that I’d give him ten Rand, but this?
And it’s not just parking lot attendants. It’s the gas station too. Do you know I haven’t pumped my own gas since I moved to South Africa? It’s not laziness, people – there’s no option to do it yourself. You pull up, someone directs you where to go, they ask what you need, they take your gas card, they wash your windows, they check your tires. It’s nice, I guess, but once again, I can do it myself, thanks. But I don’t – actually, I’m not allowed to – so once the credit card slip is signed I find myself handing over a fiver for a service that I didn’t request.
I know pointless services happen in America too. The bathroom attendant comes to mind. There’s nothing more irritating than feeling obliged to leave a dollar in a basket because some joker has handed me a paper towel. But that was never an every day thing…at least not for someone like me who rarely went to clubs or fancy bars. The parking lot attendant though…there he is. Every time. Everywhere.
Am I just being cheap? I don’t think so. To prove it’s not about the money, I will cite an example that doesn’t even require tipping. The movie theater. When the show is over, I routinely reach down to pick up the empty popcorn tub and diet coke, and each time, Roger has to remind me to leave it. There aren’t any large trash cans at the exit in which I could deposit the evidence of my overindulgence anyway. The staff will come in afterward to collect trash and clean up. Sure, movie theaters in America have a clean up crew too, but here, you’re really not even supposed to pick up your trash. My sister-in-law scolded me the first time we went to the theater together. “What are you doing, man? This is Africa; you could put someone out of a job for doing that.”
She's right, I guess. I'm starting to recognize that all of this willingness to 'help' is probably a good thing. These people aren’t stealing or living off the government. They are eager to work for their money…it’s not really work that needs to be done, in my opinion, but it creates a job in an economy that desperately needs them. So, I guess I’m just a bitch. In my defense, however, I can promise you that I will continue to hand over a five Rand whenever someone transfers my groceries from the cart to the trunk. And I will leave my trash behind at the movie theater. I will not pump my own gas. I will continue to contribute to the South African economy.
But I’m afraid the attempt to hide from the parking lot attendant is instinctual. And maybe kinda fun. Hell, if I look at it that way, I suppose if he can catch me he deserves the five Rand.
And at least as long as I’m here, perhaps I will maintain my good record of parking lot performances. And that’s a good thing… I guess…
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Take Me Out to the Ballgame
It’s that time of year again. The baseball playoffs are approaching; college football has started at last…but much to my dismay, I’m not sitting in a bar with a pitcher of beer and buffalo wings. No, I’m in Africa, unable to watch American sports (Of course, after the way UGA performed last weekend, I’m not sure I want to!). It’s ironic actually. Finally, I’m not spending my Saturday’s working, and yet, I still can’t watch football.
I am a sporty girl. Not sporty in the sense that I can throw a ball without considerable embarrassment, or catch – well, anything, but sporty in the sense that I like sports. I’m not one of those women who whines about my husband’s fantasy football league (tease, yes; whine, no). I certainly understand his passion for Arsenal, the English soccer team he grew up supporting. I don’t even mind his English and South African pride when it comes to national tournaments. Soccer, rugby, cricket, tennis, football…I get it. He loves sports.
Now, here it is – you knew it was coming – the big fat BUT.
I understand that he loves sports, but lately, it’s non-stop. It’s one never-ending ballgame. No matter what day of the week, what time of day – there always seems to be a ‘big game’ on. After all, when you support twenty-seven different teams, one of them always seems to be playing. Or one of their big rivals – who, of course, must be closely monitored as well. It’s true; he has always supported these teams, but in Atlanta – even with our platinum cable package and weekly pay per view bills – there were limits to what he was able to watch. No one would broadcast the England/Sri Lanka cricket match (a five day affair by the way) or the Durban/Gauteng rugby game. In South Africa, however, these games are in high demand, so lucky boy – he can see it all. He can even catch a few middle-of-the-night NFL games on ESPN International. That’s right ESPN. Even in Africa, there is no escaping Sports Center. We also get the British Sky Sports News, just in case we didn’t get enough information from the seven South African all-sports-all-the-time channels.
I’ve considered the fact that perhaps lately I am less tolerant because I don’t really understand these foreign sports. I’m willing to learn though, and perhaps the part of me that cried during the UGA/UT game last year needs a new place to direct my energy. So, I’ve watched a few rugby games on TV; I’ve inquired about the rules of cricket and even sat through a few half hour segments of the seemingly endless matches, but I’m just not there yet. Rugby is kinda growing on me, I guess. At least the game lasts a reasonable amount of time (and the players are often quite ruggedly handsome). Cricket on the other hand – well, any game that breaks for ‘tea’ is just a little too ridiculous for me. It’s often compared to baseball, but I see very few similarities. Baseball is simple. One, two, three strikes you’re out. Or you hit the ball and run. Not so in cricket. Six pitches, nine wickets, twenty overs, fifty overs, unlimited overs. Roger will explain it to me during one game, but by the next I’m lost all over again.
To make my point – a lesson in scoring.
Baseball:
“Who’s winning?”
“Braves, 5 to 3, bottom of the seventh.”
“Great!”
Cricket:
“What’s the score?”
“England has 157 runs for 6 wickets after 62 overs.”
“So, who’s winning?”
“Well, Australia hasn’t been up yet.”
“Hasn’t the game been on for two days already?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oookay.”
Roger insisted that I would only appreciate the game after experiencing it live. He had a point – part of my love for baseball comes from my early memories of cheering on the Braves at Fulton County Stadium. Plus, who can resist a ballpark hotdog? So Roger got us tickets, and Tuesday night we attended the opening ceremony of the 20/20 Cricket World Cup followed by the South Africa versus West Indies match. Now, the 20/20 version of cricket lasts about four hours as opposed to five days, so it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was kind of fun. Seeing it live, with a husband patient enough to explain it to me for the fifteenth time, was exciting. And he was right, with all that beer and junk food, I was bound to have a good time.
So maybe I’ll come around to cricket, but I’m afraid that won’t change my status as a sports widow. I certainly love American football, but I wouldn’t watch NFL games all day either. So, what to do? No one wants to be the nagging wife, begging her husband to spend time with her. I used to feel sorry for those women – clearly they needed to get a life of their own. Yet here I am, alone again on a Saturday while Roger and his dad watch Arsenal. I’m hoping we can go see a movie later, but I suspect the rugby or the cricket or the tennis or the Formula One racing will once again take precedence. I’ve asked Roger to make me a chart, so I’ll know when I can make plans for us that don’t involve sports. He hasn’t come up with it yet, and I suspect it has something to do with the fact that until both the Rugby World Cup and the Cricket World Cup are over – I’ll be a party of one.
I’m sure I’ll cope. Now that the weather is getting warm and I’m in my own house, I can do my own thing. I didn’t get married for a twenty-four hour companion, anyway. I’d like him to notice I’m alive occasionally, but if that doesn’t happen until the end of October I’m sure I’ll manage. Besides, if the worst thing I can say about Roger is that he’s obsessed by sports, I consider myself lucky.
And when he comes looking for me next month, well, he can find me and my laptop by the pool…
I am a sporty girl. Not sporty in the sense that I can throw a ball without considerable embarrassment, or catch – well, anything, but sporty in the sense that I like sports. I’m not one of those women who whines about my husband’s fantasy football league (tease, yes; whine, no). I certainly understand his passion for Arsenal, the English soccer team he grew up supporting. I don’t even mind his English and South African pride when it comes to national tournaments. Soccer, rugby, cricket, tennis, football…I get it. He loves sports.
Now, here it is – you knew it was coming – the big fat BUT.
I understand that he loves sports, but lately, it’s non-stop. It’s one never-ending ballgame. No matter what day of the week, what time of day – there always seems to be a ‘big game’ on. After all, when you support twenty-seven different teams, one of them always seems to be playing. Or one of their big rivals – who, of course, must be closely monitored as well. It’s true; he has always supported these teams, but in Atlanta – even with our platinum cable package and weekly pay per view bills – there were limits to what he was able to watch. No one would broadcast the England/Sri Lanka cricket match (a five day affair by the way) or the Durban/Gauteng rugby game. In South Africa, however, these games are in high demand, so lucky boy – he can see it all. He can even catch a few middle-of-the-night NFL games on ESPN International. That’s right ESPN. Even in Africa, there is no escaping Sports Center. We also get the British Sky Sports News, just in case we didn’t get enough information from the seven South African all-sports-all-the-time channels.
I’ve considered the fact that perhaps lately I am less tolerant because I don’t really understand these foreign sports. I’m willing to learn though, and perhaps the part of me that cried during the UGA/UT game last year needs a new place to direct my energy. So, I’ve watched a few rugby games on TV; I’ve inquired about the rules of cricket and even sat through a few half hour segments of the seemingly endless matches, but I’m just not there yet. Rugby is kinda growing on me, I guess. At least the game lasts a reasonable amount of time (and the players are often quite ruggedly handsome). Cricket on the other hand – well, any game that breaks for ‘tea’ is just a little too ridiculous for me. It’s often compared to baseball, but I see very few similarities. Baseball is simple. One, two, three strikes you’re out. Or you hit the ball and run. Not so in cricket. Six pitches, nine wickets, twenty overs, fifty overs, unlimited overs. Roger will explain it to me during one game, but by the next I’m lost all over again.
To make my point – a lesson in scoring.
Baseball:
“Who’s winning?”
“Braves, 5 to 3, bottom of the seventh.”
“Great!”
Cricket:
“What’s the score?”
“England has 157 runs for 6 wickets after 62 overs.”
“So, who’s winning?”
“Well, Australia hasn’t been up yet.”
“Hasn’t the game been on for two days already?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oookay.”
Roger insisted that I would only appreciate the game after experiencing it live. He had a point – part of my love for baseball comes from my early memories of cheering on the Braves at Fulton County Stadium. Plus, who can resist a ballpark hotdog? So Roger got us tickets, and Tuesday night we attended the opening ceremony of the 20/20 Cricket World Cup followed by the South Africa versus West Indies match. Now, the 20/20 version of cricket lasts about four hours as opposed to five days, so it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was kind of fun. Seeing it live, with a husband patient enough to explain it to me for the fifteenth time, was exciting. And he was right, with all that beer and junk food, I was bound to have a good time.
So maybe I’ll come around to cricket, but I’m afraid that won’t change my status as a sports widow. I certainly love American football, but I wouldn’t watch NFL games all day either. So, what to do? No one wants to be the nagging wife, begging her husband to spend time with her. I used to feel sorry for those women – clearly they needed to get a life of their own. Yet here I am, alone again on a Saturday while Roger and his dad watch Arsenal. I’m hoping we can go see a movie later, but I suspect the rugby or the cricket or the tennis or the Formula One racing will once again take precedence. I’ve asked Roger to make me a chart, so I’ll know when I can make plans for us that don’t involve sports. He hasn’t come up with it yet, and I suspect it has something to do with the fact that until both the Rugby World Cup and the Cricket World Cup are over – I’ll be a party of one.
I’m sure I’ll cope. Now that the weather is getting warm and I’m in my own house, I can do my own thing. I didn’t get married for a twenty-four hour companion, anyway. I’d like him to notice I’m alive occasionally, but if that doesn’t happen until the end of October I’m sure I’ll manage. Besides, if the worst thing I can say about Roger is that he’s obsessed by sports, I consider myself lucky.
And when he comes looking for me next month, well, he can find me and my laptop by the pool…
Sunday, September 9, 2007
You Must be THIS Tall...
When I was six or seven my parents took Darby and me to Six Flags Over Georgia. I was desperate to ride the newest roller coaster, the Z Force. We waited in line for awhile, but as we approached the final stretch we came to the dreaded sign. It was the sign that had almost kept me off Space Mountain two years previously, the same sign that had banned me from the Gravitron. You know the one, usually printed on a wooden cut out of some obnoxious cartoon character – the “You Must Be THIS Tall to Ride” sign. I fought back tears while my father argued with the man guarding off munchkins like myself. My mom quietly slipped out of line with me. A few hours later though, Munchkin Guard went on break and my dad decided we’d try to sneak past New Guy. New Guy was not quite so attentive. Mission accomplished.
I think our rule breaking caused a bit of a fight between my parents (not that it took much). My mom felt that the rule was there to protect me and that my father was wrong to sneak me past the guard. While I would have argued the point at age seven, looking back I can see that she was probably right. At forty inches tall, maybe the seat belt wouldn’t fasten right on my little body. Perhaps I risked slipping out from the handle bar. Maybe my brain wasn’t developed enough to handle the head-rattling ninety seconds of the Z Force.
As it turned out, I survived. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, but it was nothing compared to the emotional Z Force I am currently riding. And once again, I feel like I have slipped past the Munchkin Guard. I certainly don’t feel emotionally ‘tall enough’ for the ups and downs of this life I’ve chosen. One minute I’m Meryl Streep in Out of Africa and the next I’m Sally Field in Not Without my Daughter (or dog in my case!). Last week I was curled up in my old bed at my Mom’s house; this week I’m tossing and turning on a new mattress in a cottage in Africa. One minute I’m crying in the bathroom, the next I’m dancing with Roger in our very own kitchen. Yesterday I was thrilled to be shopping for cookware at Mr. Price Home, and today I’m nauseous over the fact that I own things I can’t take home with me. I can no longer simply pack up my bags and leave. I own a car; I’ve purchased furniture; I have to pay taxes. Pardon me while I hyperventilate.
While the reality of having my own place to live is freaking me out considerably, I am relieved beyond words to be out of my in-laws’ house. We’re still waiting on a few things (a sink in the bathroom? Who needs it?), but we’ve moved into the cottage, and it’s really cute (pictures coming soon). I know I should be ecstatic – and I am – but I’m sad too. Tonight Darby called and I spent the first half of the conversation excitedly telling her all about our new place and the second half fighting back tears. I'm sure this is why men say women are crazy. We have the unique ability to simultaneously feel seventeen opposing emotions. This often results in laughing, crying, shouting, pouting and smiling – all in the span of twenty minutes. My husband simply squeezes my hand and tells me he loves me. The man deserves a medal.
I’m okay, really. But just like I knew it would be, coming back to Africa after such a short time with everyone I love at home, well, it was heartbreaking. It’s not that I’ve changed my mind about our move, I just want to pack up the people I love and take them with me…but that’s not possible. And I can’t be in two places at once, hard as I may try via the phone, email, and this far too revealing blog.
I have to admit, it was hard to sit down and write this weekend. I wasn’t really sure what to say. Most of you tune in for the neurotic-but-witty version of me, but tonight I’m not feeling very witty (okay, maybe I’m never that witty but please let me hold onto my delusions!). To be honest, ever since I hugged my sister goodbye Monday afternoon, my brain is feeling a bit rattled. It’s the Z Force all over again. Then again, while the Z Force gave me a serious headache, I still went back for more. I think I rode it three times that day. So perhaps I subconsciously crave the emotional drama. Surely I didn’t think moving across the planet would be easy. Was I searching for an adventure… with a little angst on the side? After all, some of the best writers were tortured souls. So, maybe a mini-quarter-life crisis will be good for me (wow, I guess I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis, when did that happen?). Oh well, hopefully all this drama will be good for my ‘art.’
Hey, it kept your attention for the past three minutes.
Thanks for that…
I think our rule breaking caused a bit of a fight between my parents (not that it took much). My mom felt that the rule was there to protect me and that my father was wrong to sneak me past the guard. While I would have argued the point at age seven, looking back I can see that she was probably right. At forty inches tall, maybe the seat belt wouldn’t fasten right on my little body. Perhaps I risked slipping out from the handle bar. Maybe my brain wasn’t developed enough to handle the head-rattling ninety seconds of the Z Force.
As it turned out, I survived. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, but it was nothing compared to the emotional Z Force I am currently riding. And once again, I feel like I have slipped past the Munchkin Guard. I certainly don’t feel emotionally ‘tall enough’ for the ups and downs of this life I’ve chosen. One minute I’m Meryl Streep in Out of Africa and the next I’m Sally Field in Not Without my Daughter (or dog in my case!). Last week I was curled up in my old bed at my Mom’s house; this week I’m tossing and turning on a new mattress in a cottage in Africa. One minute I’m crying in the bathroom, the next I’m dancing with Roger in our very own kitchen. Yesterday I was thrilled to be shopping for cookware at Mr. Price Home, and today I’m nauseous over the fact that I own things I can’t take home with me. I can no longer simply pack up my bags and leave. I own a car; I’ve purchased furniture; I have to pay taxes. Pardon me while I hyperventilate.
While the reality of having my own place to live is freaking me out considerably, I am relieved beyond words to be out of my in-laws’ house. We’re still waiting on a few things (a sink in the bathroom? Who needs it?), but we’ve moved into the cottage, and it’s really cute (pictures coming soon). I know I should be ecstatic – and I am – but I’m sad too. Tonight Darby called and I spent the first half of the conversation excitedly telling her all about our new place and the second half fighting back tears. I'm sure this is why men say women are crazy. We have the unique ability to simultaneously feel seventeen opposing emotions. This often results in laughing, crying, shouting, pouting and smiling – all in the span of twenty minutes. My husband simply squeezes my hand and tells me he loves me. The man deserves a medal.
I’m okay, really. But just like I knew it would be, coming back to Africa after such a short time with everyone I love at home, well, it was heartbreaking. It’s not that I’ve changed my mind about our move, I just want to pack up the people I love and take them with me…but that’s not possible. And I can’t be in two places at once, hard as I may try via the phone, email, and this far too revealing blog.
I have to admit, it was hard to sit down and write this weekend. I wasn’t really sure what to say. Most of you tune in for the neurotic-but-witty version of me, but tonight I’m not feeling very witty (okay, maybe I’m never that witty but please let me hold onto my delusions!). To be honest, ever since I hugged my sister goodbye Monday afternoon, my brain is feeling a bit rattled. It’s the Z Force all over again. Then again, while the Z Force gave me a serious headache, I still went back for more. I think I rode it three times that day. So perhaps I subconsciously crave the emotional drama. Surely I didn’t think moving across the planet would be easy. Was I searching for an adventure… with a little angst on the side? After all, some of the best writers were tortured souls. So, maybe a mini-quarter-life crisis will be good for me (wow, I guess I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis, when did that happen?). Oh well, hopefully all this drama will be good for my ‘art.’
Hey, it kept your attention for the past three minutes.
Thanks for that…
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