The Everywhereist

I become a huge, unmitigated dork whenever anyone points a camera at me.

Okay, fine: I’m a huge, unmitigated dork in most circumstances, and that includes when someone points a camera at me.

See?

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I think the true test of any marriage is how well you can handle being stuck in traffic together.

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Do you ever look back at events, with the hindsight of years gone by, and wonder how exactly you were able to get through them?

In high school, a friend of mine commented on this phenomenon. She and I had gone to Homecoming (with our respective dates) a mere two weeks or so after another friend of ours had died.

“How did we do that?” she asked me much later. “How did we go to a dance after all that?”

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“You chose … wisely.”

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Do you ever have moments of absolutely pure conviction? Where you don’t need anyone else’s opinion on something, because you are 100% certain that you are about to make the right decision?

I rarely have moments like that. I require someone else’s feedback on everything. Which shoes I should wear. What books I should read. I’ve literally asked dinner dates if they thought I should “pee now or wait until after we’ve ordered.”

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It’s taken me a while to get around to writing this post. First, I needed to wait until my rage subsided.

That took longer than I thought it would.

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Brain surgery was not what I thought it would be.

As ridiculous as it sounds, going into it, I convinced myself it wouldn’t be a big deal. I know, I know. How does one actually convince themselves that brain surgery isn’t that big a deal?

I don’t rightly know, but believe me when I tell you: I almost managed to do it. I knew that if I started freaking out about the whole process, there would be no calming down, so I just strolled into the pre-operating room without a care in the world (or rather, I was wheeled into the pre-operating room on a little bed without a care in the world. This made me feel a little bit like royalty, with my fancy-bed-on-wheels and the fact that I didn’t have to wear underwear. I highly recommend you try it, especially if you can skip the part where they cut open your head.)

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The trips, after a while, blur together.

That’s awful to say, but it’s true. The first time you visit a city is like the first time you kiss the love of your life. You remember every single detail: the shirt you wore, the walk home from the restaurant, the smell of winter in the air. It’s so clear that if you were to recreate it again from only your memory, you could do a fairly good job (but maybe you’d remember your skin as being clearer than it was and your hair bouncier, and who’s to say it wasn’t?).

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He leans to kiss me,

But stops; sees my red lipstick,

And leaves me hanging.

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