A Week Out

Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate
And for them I would not disagree
But I never learned nothing from playing it safe
I say fate should not tempt me.
- I Take My Chances, Mary Chapin-Carpenter

I love rollercoasters. I wait in line no matter how long and I wait to enjoy the 32 seconds or (for a rare treat) the 73 seconds of the ride. I look up at each car as it runs its course overhead while I wait in line. I get butterflies. I try not to think about the possiblity that I could fall out to my death if something went wrong. I engage in banter with whoever I'm in line with about whatever mundane thing we can come up with. I reassure that person that this ride will be awesome and we'll be fine. I even go so far as to time the ride to use that as ammunition as to why it'll be easy-peasy. I have to use these methods to their fullest when I am with my sister, Susan, as she is a rollercoster lover and scaredy-cat all rolled into one cute package.

This last month has been a very long wait in the ride for this new rollercoaster. And now, I'm only about three people back and I'm trying to decide if I want the front car or to just get in somewhere safer, like the middle. I know this for sure now, though: I am looking forward to going. I knew it would come. Everytime I'm in a line for that crazy new ride, by the time it is time to get into the little car and pull my knees up (since I never fit well in the car), I'm excited more than everything else.

I know that I haven't even gotten on yet, yet I'm already anticipating the slow, clanky ride up to the crest of the first hill and the inevitable drop that follows. That'll be hard. But exhilerating and amazing, too.

I just hope that the 27 months of this experience feels longer than the 66 seconds of the rollercoaster. I know I run the risk of it feeling that fast. I must savor. And perhaps sections of these 27 months will be like getting off and getting back in line for another ride, with all the anticipation, worry, butterflies and excitement that happens every time, no matter how many times I've ridden before.

I'm a week away from departure. Packing has ensued. Boxes have been loaded into the extremely useful hatchback Ford Escort and driven to Chelmsford and unloaded through the bulkhead into the basement. I have found old letters from friends and family that have survived a series of moves and are still in a box under my bed that I forgot about. I have a growing pile of things that are in the running to come to Paraguay with me (do I really need 9 t-shirts? will i need fleece pants in a country where it is 100 degrees for about 7 months of the year? do i take a mini hairdryer or my regular sized one? how many books?).

My room is starting to be a bummer. I have hesitated to take my photos and artwork from around the world off my walls because the empty nails are sad. And the dustbunnies are big enough to get up and dance with me which makes them a bit frightening (and telling...I'm really not a very clean person). I keep forgetting I have kitchen stuff to pack up because I own so little of it.

The weather this week is supposed to stay spectacular, which is a lovely Boston treat for my last week. I walked 3 miles around Jamaica Plain pond this morning, thinking about how much I love that area of the city and how long it took me to discover it.

I spent 3.5 days in LA this past weekend with friends and their children and revelled in small hands and swings and the joy an old computer brings to a 5-year-old who has discovered disneykids.com. I have thought about how big all my pseudo-neices and nephews will be when I see them again. I have thought about the real neice or nephew I could have by the time I come home. I am reflecting. A lot. It feels healthy.

In 7 days, I'm off to tempt fate or, depending on how you look at it, for fate to spend some time tempting me. I'll take my chances.