Maybe in Another Life

In the past week, I have booked and re-booked 5 airline tickets (for three different people), two hotel rooms, three rental cars and a rental truck. In the past 10 days I have spent an iadmissable amount at the mechanic and purchased a washer and dryer (I really feel old now - I own an appliance), as well as $80 in clothes I sort of needed (maternity things, purchased now rather than later due to changed schedules), $50 in road trip food, $70 in groceries for the in-laws who don't apparently eat unless we come to visit and an as-yet-undetermined amount for a stay at a teeny little hospital in a teeny little town in what I am sure is approaching the middle of nowhere.

I have also "moved." I use the term lightly as "moving" meant flying to a new city, 2,200 miles away and going to work (after finding something moderately suitable to wear for my first day, given my collection of vacation clothes and growing belly). I have no home, I have no church congregation, I have not a clue what I'm doing at work (yet), I know almost no one.

Then I remembered that Baby Girl arrives in approximately 14 weeks. And my nearly complete "must have" list dropped to nothing, when I realized moving meant returning everything a very generous friend had loaned us.

I think that was the last straw.

I find myself completely overwhelmed, stressed, anxious, grumpy, hormonal and ready to throw my hands in the air and concede to a life of digging myself out of this grand idea.

It's no wonder. Experts say that one should, ideally (key word here), only experience one major life event at time. Well, I got to counting our life events that will occur in the span of 4 months:

-New baby
-New jobs
-Moving 2,200 miles
-Close relative diagnosed with terminal cancer
-Major financial purchase (I'm counting the washer/dryer and the car repairs - since they are combined more than I've spent on anything other than a car in my life)

Someone re-convince me this really is a good idea ...

Royal Encounters

Three weeks ago, the thought of changing jobs, moving 2,100 miles away and having Baby Girl in a totally unfamiliar location wasn't even a consideration. Two weeks ago it was really more of a "when Baby Girl arrives," thought than anything.

So it is no wonder that, when realizing that we were moving (a week ago), I grew anxious about how to fit in some of the plans we'd made for next month. By nature, I am a planner. In fact, one of the most endearing traits (okay, and truthfully, sometimes nerve-wracking traits for a Type A person like me) Himself has is his ability to be spontaneous. So it was with shock we greeted a complete role reversal when we had the following conversation Thursday evening:

Moi: "You know, since you're working this weekend, we could go to Philly tomorrow to see King Tut."

Himself: "You have got to be insane. We won't have enough time."

Moi: "We will. I can get off at 11 - we can do it. I really want to go."

Himself: "So do I, but this is a really bad idea."

Somehow, my "bad idea" won - I think it had something to do with pregnancy hormones, a *slight* amount of insanity on both our parts and an act Himself hoped would keep me from falling off the precipitous drop of emotional stability I've been clinging to for the past week.

We went to Philly to see King Tut, Himself silently wishing my spontenaity had come at time that didn't involve the beginnings of Friday-before-Mother's-Day-East-Coast-Traffic.

What we experienced was beyond what either one of us had dare hoped. Somehow, the three-thousand-year-old statuettes, vessels, jewelry, furniture and other relics cast an enchanting spell. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience - seeing items that have never before been in the United States. Fellow museum-goers were also in a hushed trance as we peered through glass cases almost incomprehensively. Painted wood that had survived 3,000 years. Tiny figurines with intricate details. Jewelry that showed remarkable style and craftsmanship. All of it breathtaking. Himself and I were nearly beside ourselves at our good fortune in being able to experience it and spent 2 1/2 hours to view every one of the 130 objects. The exhibit preview didn't do it justice, nor did the postcards of our favorite artifacts. It was absolutely breathtaking.

Later, as a result of a wrong turn, we stumbled across Xochtil (so-cheet), a traditional Mexican restaurant with the Aztec influences of the Puebla Region. Seated at the downstairs bar, due to the reservations-only status, we had a completely indulgent meal of meats, cheeses, handmade tortillas, spicy sauces and tableside quacamole.

We lingered so long over dinner, we arrived home at midnight, only five hours before Himself had to drag himself out of bed to go to work.

I would have felt bad, had we not said "Good Night" by sighing contentedly, "It was the perfect day."

Adieu, Self

There is a quote from The Wonder Years that almost perfectly describes what I have been struggling to put into words for days:

“Growing up is never easy. You hold on to things that were. You wonder what's to come. But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be. Other days. New days. Days to come.”

I realized today that the whole process of moving cross-country is reversing the trend I started 9 years ago, when I first embarked on this wild East Coast adventure. We are moving. Not just within the county (too expensive), the state (I've lived in the only two areas of Virginia I could ever see myself in), or the region (Himself has never had the love affair with cities and the East Coast that I have), but to the other side of the world (okay, not really, but given the amount of changes, it may as well be).

I couldn't quite decide if I was folding, giving in to everything I had never wanted to be, going soft with the pending birth of Baby Girl, or if I was just feeling the first twinges of growing pains. I read this quote and realized I was growing up. At the tail-end of my 20s, it seems an odd thing to label a forthcoming experience as "growing up," but I can't think of a better way to put it.

The adventure that defined me as an adult, that consumed most of the last 10 years, is coming to an end, fittingly only months before the birth of our daughter and only a year shy of a new decade of life. Moving has always been a bit melancholic, but the promise of adventure just over the next state line has always been seductively enticing. This time, I wonder if this is IT. The move that will force me to put down some kind of roots, to cease my notions of nomadic wanderings. After realizing that it was sending me into semi-catonic fits, Himself wisely said, "Stop thinking of this as permanent, you're doing to drive me up the wall." (Okay, wise, if not entirely dripping with sympathy).

This adventure seems to have an aura of sad finality about it - not the bad "dressed in black, mourning and wailing" sad, but the "end of an era" sad, as I bid adieu to the only adulthood I've ever known. When I climb into a car in two weeks and wave good-bye to the beloved state that has become home, I know that as this chapter closes on the epoch adventure of my young adulthood, I will never forget my East Coast self. I know that someday, I will share stories and advice and mis-adventures (the ones with good endings, at least) with Baby Girl and my "I remember whens..." of my 20s will be poignantly laced with the world to which I am now waving good-bye.

Farewell.

**On a side note: The last time I moved cross-country (yes, this now qualifies as a trend, as it will be the third time I have picked up and moved more than 2,000 miles away), it took a flight through St. Louis and three suitcases. This time, it involves 2 weeks of packing, a large truck and a whole host of logistical insanity. Proof I really have grown up.

Shuffling

Five-and-a-half years after 9/11, I no longer feel like a terrorist each time I board a plane.

A combination flying hundreds of times since then and accepting metal dectectors, pat-downs, limitations on personal items and prying eyes as part of one's life when one lives in the nation's capital, have rendered me immune to the indignity of airports.

Yesterday, I stood in line to declare myself sane, safe and compliant as I did the silent ritulistic dance for the TSA.

Lean on right foot, balance, untie shoe on left foot. Slide shoe off.
Lean on left foot, balance, untie shoe on right foot. Slide shoe off.
Squat. Pick up shoes.
Rifle through purse for contraband that escaped being relegated to a 32oz. plastic zipper bag.
Remove plastic bag of contraband from other carry-on items.
Shuffle forward.
Remove gray bins.
Try not to think about the grime now attaching itself to the bottom of the socks.
Shuffle. Shuffle. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
Pat thighs, hips before realizing there are no pockets with hidden dangerous items.

It's a communal bonding experience that now causes people to sigh in frustration after behing stuck behind the non-English-speaking business traveler on his way to JFK who has failed to remove his laptop, and is now grinding the entire procession to a precarious stop. Sighing because anyone travelling with a laptop, in theory, travels enough to remember it is on the list of 'suspect' items. It is a bonding that causes one man, seeing a mother traveling alone with an infant, to help her in her shuffle as she places items on the belt and struggles to hold the infant while collapsing the stroller that must be scanned as well. It is a bonding that keeps people patient as the security screener hand inspects the infant formula of another woman's child. It is a bonding that ignites sparks of conversation about the process, the world, a vacation ended or just beginning.

We shuffle through, stripped to the barest of necessities, hurrying to claim our positions on the other side and reverse the dance back into human sophistication.

Resignation has replaced indignity. Acquiescence has replaced challenge.

Like lemmings to a cliff, we shuffle forward, sighing a breath of relief we aren't yet all confined to checking everything or bringing nothing and traveling in our birthday suits.

Monumental Mourning

A shocking, awful event while I was away, as reported by The Washington Post.

Eastern Market, one of my favorite places in D.C. was nearly destroyed by fire yesterday. A devestating blow to the 14 vendors, the beloved lunch counter, the historic architecture, the neighborhood and everyone who has ever indulged in the wonderful kaleidescope of sights, smells, sounds and tastes associated with the historic market.

The damage is estimated at $20 million. The city has pledged to rebuild the landmark, but it will never be the same.

A moment of silence for the treasure lost to the ravaging flames, and a change to this weekend's plans.