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If the World Is My Oyster, Why Am I Settling For Shrimp? |
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Directionless.
"Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe."
~Anatole France
As usual, my life is in transition. This is the case with all lives, everywhere, all the time, every single moment. But I don’t care about them. This is my website and in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s all about me. Up until this past
weekend when I finally finished my essays of humiliation and defeat,
Revenge of the Nerds, I had been blocked.
Why have I been blocked you probably don’t care to ask? Well, don’t worry, I don’t care to tell you because I have come to the realization that I hate writing about what’s going on with me in real time. For instance, I could share all kinds of interesting and fascinating tidbits about my sordid life story as it unfolds currently; my struggle with my broken heart & who broke it, what it’s like to raise someone else’s child, the grief I feel over my best friend moving home. I don’t want to, though. I want to keep something for myself.
But I will tell you this fascinating little secret:
The dishes from yesterday's breakfast still remain in the sink. I never do this. My world needs to be orderly or I can’t write. At least this is what I tell myself. I am currently enjoying the disarray, however. It reflects my inner state of being.
Confusion.
My whole life I have wanted nothing more than to see the globe. More than that. I wanted to be a global citizen; multi-lingual, comfortable in any country and capable of earning any currency, my passport tattered and stamped.
I would come home from school and, directly after watching the educational Gummi Bears/Duck Tales/Chip n Dale: Rescue Rangers/Tale Spin line-up, I'd watch videos documenting different parts of the world. Europe. South America. Asia. The single most powerful desire I ever knew, was the desire to see the world and everything in it.
I spent every day in class, daydreaming about what it would be like to someday visit these faraway lands.
Daydreaming is for poets and children. It really has no place in the real world of being a grown up. The world where stability and routine are revered. The world of 401K’s, degrees, mortgages, daily commutes and baby showers. The world of borders and nationalism. A world I have never wanted any part of and the very thought of makes me feel like I am being buried alive and my soul want to scream the haunting wail of a banshee.
Now, I have nothing against the grown up world. I've realized it's just not for me. So, at 32, I find myself at a crossroads.
I have not seen nearly as much of this Blue Earth as I thought I would have by now. I also currently find myself in a unique position: the freest, free-spirit one could ever hope to be. No husband. No kids. No dog. No property. No permanent job. No debt. Not even so much as a boyfriend or the hint of one. My family lives on the other side of the country, so they are already extremely far away. There is literally no more opportunity for me here than anywhere else on the planet.
I have a savings. I have friends and free places to stay in almost every major city in Europe. I also find I have less and less of a good reason NOT to pack up and leave.
Now I know why I am avoiding the dishes. These moments of profound monotony leave me nothing to do but daydream. My reverie goes something like this:
I finally take a leap of faith, grow a pair and decide, once and for all, to make my longing to be an expatriate a reality. Everything goes: my car, my keyboard, my inherited furniture and my beloved headless Buddha collection. Taking the money from the sale of all my prized possessions, my underlined books, the down on my apartment and the sale of my car--I head out, leaving the safe bosom of the Motherland far behind me.
Destination: Barcelona. This will be the first international city in which I set up shop. My bosom friend helps me navigate the transition, finding me work as a yoga instructor and an apartment in Barceloneta.
I settle into a life of long walks, afternoon writing sessions in cafes, evening tapas and late nights at the discothèque. I get to know myself in ways I couldn’t imagine. My experiences & conversations are deeper and more meaningful. My writing improves. As I go global, so does my website. My perspective becomes interesting, thought-provoking...and valuable. International advertising dollars pour in. I am now free to roam where I want to, roam around the world.
The B-52’s play over the Sabrina-esque montage in my mind. I’ve arrived.
On my journeys, at some point, I meet a gorgeous rugby player. He is 6’2”, dark hair, green eyes with the kind of toned and tanned torso one can only acquire through years devoted to drinking, sporting, boffing and going to the beach.
Harry will find me irresistible. He is Australian and all he has done is spend his days traveling and spreading syphilis; but he has seen the world, dated models and knows exactly what he does and doesn’t want. He knows I’m different. He tells me, under the full moon on the island of Santorini, that I’m special. And maybe, just maybe, he has sustained enough brain damage from the Rugby and madness from the years of undiagnosed syphilis…to think I am the one.
We wed during an Indian Summer under a Tuscan sun. Our vacations are spent in Italy, the Greek Isles, New Zealand, Tahiti. We settle down in Spain for a bit so he can continue to play rugby and I can teach yoga and continue to write. We are gorgeous, tan and bi-lingual. After a couple of years, we move to Italy so I can learn the cooking techniques of my ancestors and he can fulfill his childhood dreams of working on a vineyard. Now...we are tri-lingual.
The world is our oyster, our playground. We summer in the South of France. Harry's rugby career abruptly comes to an end due to a nasty tear of the Achilles Heel. I nurse him back to health. These
are some hard days. We struggle, together, still bound by our deep and
undying love for one another. It makes us stronger, more resilient,
better human beings. We move to London when Harry, being brilliantly witty and talented despite his brain damage, gets a job writing for a sardonic British television show.
My writing during this period is dark, insightful and filled with a sense of hopeful hopelessness. I continue writing poignant blogs about nothing, win a webby award and make millions of pounds (or euros or whatever the strongest currency in the world happens to be) doing so. I also finish 3 novels that year, which I will refuse to publish, despite multiple offers for my work.
After some time, our extended walkabout brings us home to his native Australia, where finally, we settle down in a beach community. We domesticate a dingo and make it our pet. We have 2 children. Their childhood is perfect and idyllic, spent on the beaches of Aussie, their curly locks shining in the sun as they frolic in the waves and build sandcastles. He kisses me in the glow of a hot summer sunset, holding me tight. At this point the syphilis and dementia have taken a hold of both of us, but none of that matters--we have each other, our 3 languages, our 2 kids, our dingo and whatever is left of our memories...
As you can see, I get a little carried away.
Lately, like Alice, I’ve been falling down the rabbit hole of infinite possibilities. Lately, I’ve been feeling lost. Actually, that’s not true. Lately, more than anything, I want to get lost. Because maybe, I intuitively understand that what I’m feeling isn’t so much lost. It’s found.
And with that, it’s high time I did those dishes.
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