I’m at the intersection of Overwhelmed Ave. and Catatonic St..
But it’s all good. Seriously – were it not for the remarkable and wonderful reasons that I’m idling at that intersection, my head would have certainly fallen off by now. But wonder of wonders, I get to go do my job. In another city. For awhile.
And on the way to the job, I get to hang out with my gosh-darned husband. The person I married and expected to actually live with.
When I tell folks that we’ve been living across the country from each other for going on six months, some people blanch. What–? How do you–? Why–? It’s just part of doing what we do, I say, shrugging in that I-realize-it-sounds-insane way. Because we’re not military. One of us isn’t doing scientific exploration at the South Pole. We’re not saving lives in underserved areas.
Instead, C is on Broadway, and I’m going to shoot a TV show. Boot camps of their own breed, certainly, but hardly the kind of hardship other couples often face.
But as the day of my departure draws nearer, I find my brain has vacated my skull. I forget to do…lots of things. Sometimes after remembering only a moment before. I stare at the growing pile of clothing/gear/life stuff that’s supposed to get packed away, and I flail at the thought of leaving for five months.
I’m told NYC has stuff. Like, everything one could possibly need. So I’m trying to remember that, technically, I could get on the plane with Arlo and my purse and be fine.
It’s my overdeveloped sense of What If that prevents me from doing that. God. Wouldn’t that be liberating? To literally leave it all behind?
But what a pain in the ass it would be to have to go get all new toothbrush and toothpaste and socks and that hair stuff you like and some shirts and a cute skirt and maybe a pair of shoes or seven. Yeah. Better to try to pack five months and two seasons into two suitcases.
I can do it. I’m a really good packer.