I have returned to the land of milk and honey, a world of freeways and super-stores. I think I am still in a state of shock. Not because of any expatriate trauma, or Europe vs. America culture shock (Come on, I was in Ireland!), but because I feel I have been living two parallel lives that have nothing to do with one another—if that makes any sense. In my Irish World I had a tiny apartment with bad plumbing, less than a handful of close friends, no money, and a fantabulous boyfriend. Here, I have a house with parents, lots of great friends, no money and no car. And, most importantly, no fantabulous boyfriend :( I think I managed pretty well at the airport, considering the circumstances. I had expected a full-out trauma of tears, instead I managed a simple deluge. It was really awful saying good-bye to Daryl. Awful. That’s with a capital “a.” I thought that by talking about it, and preparing myself, and feeling bad before I got on the plane, I could avoid feeling bad at the airport. Ha! Was I wrong! Instead of indulging in a description of my sorrow, I will instead indulge in the finale: as I was walking down the stairs to get to the plane, I was met by the large bending-over ass of a fellow female traveler, as she was being searched. There’s nothing like being smacked in the face (so to speak) with revulsion, to end any and all tears.
Fast forward to plane landing in Detroit. I realized, looking out the window as we began our descent, that it might not have been so wise for me to invite any and all of my Euro-friends to come visit me. I’m not sure that the industrialized pastures of the rust-belt are quite what people need to see on a vacation. In my homesickness I talked up Detroit quite a bit. Okay, a lot.
That aside, I have been too lazy to unpack my bags, so instead have started wearing all of my clothes left over from high school. Here’s to faded cut-off jeans and sweatshirts! Woo-hoo! Not only have I returned to no home, no car, and no job but I got a phone call yesterday from someone from my high school class—we are having our ten-year reunion after all. I had hoped and prayed this day would never come, that somehow the incompetent and underachiever nature of class of ’93 would mean we would never have to meet up again. Boy was I wrong. I’m half debating having my mother call them and say that I’m still in Ireland. Or, never returning to the United States.
Why must everything happen at once? And, why do we have to have the 10-year now? A year in which I’m unemployed, living at home, and having no car? Why? Perhaps I should have prepared for ’03 with a bit more chutzpah. Or, maybe I will just switch ’03 with ’98 when I had a real job at Harvard. So, if I combine the Harvard job with a British boyfriend then I’m not doing so bad after all. Not that I think of my life as ‘bad’ or anything, but I had such a god-awful time all through school (if you have seen “Welcome to the Dollhouse” then you get the picture) that I’m afraid I will break out into hives when I see some of these people again. Then again, last I heard some of the most popular delinquents were working at Enterprise Rent-a-Car and as Northwest Airlines baggage handlers. And, there were a couple of deaths—one drug-related, the other asthma-related whilst fighting a forest-fire. So, all in all I guess I’m doing fairly well. What’s really weird is that I don’t run into any of these people. Peckish and I were discussing that perhaps there is a Dearborn Underworld in which they shop and exist. Actually, I like to think of high school as an awful Greek myth.
I want my gossip! - 2005-08-17
Goodbye, BGT! - 2005-08-08
hell hath no fury like a awriting workshop - 2005-08-01
My Love Don't Cost a Thing - 2005-07-14
Kiss My Grits! - 2005-07-06
