Tuesday, September 4, 2012

there are no cows here

Uh-oh . . . pressure's on . . . expiration date on this unopened two-pound box of Velveeta is 9/24/12. How could I let this happen? I'm supposed to leave the country in nine days and how much mac and cheese will I need to stuff down my family's throats to make this problem go away?  God, I'm so irresponsible.

 I should clean before I leave. I look around my townhouse and find it hard to believe I once read a book on feng shui. Every flat and horizontal space is cluttered with grand children's pictures, cheap mementos from trips and the occasional sea shell. I long for clean minimalist Swedish decor but I need my stuff, lots of it, need to see it, know it's there, home.

The trip looms before me, I say looms. It takes me two days to decide whether I should attend a local event even if it's only minutes from my comfortable couch.  And yet I am winging off to foreign countries and airports where half the citizens don't speak English and are quite content with that.  I am not flexible enough for this project and I should just stay home.

It is the sensible farm woman in me speaking, the one who needs to stay home and milk those full to bursting cows every day.  There are no cows here.

I have always had wanderlust, I spent my first two years of college thumbing it across the state and beyond. And then I got pregnant, a deliberate choice and I would go on to live in the same town my parents and their parents resided and raise this child and a couple more and that was correct on all levels.  But I am older now and in need of very few material things, just new underwear now and then.  What monies I accumulate at this point will be used for traveling, lovely traveling.

I have seen the odd movie, The Odd Life of Timothy Green twice in the last week and I am not recommending it, eh.  But there was that one line that came at me, "and what are you going to do with your one and only life?"   Don't want to be sappy but I do want a really good answer for that.