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…