This post will be boring and self-serving. I have nothing interesting to say other than that the fact that I am so f’ing grateful to be home. 

But here’s a couple stories anyway:

An odd thing happened on my trip that shocked and amazed me. I had no fear. Of flying, that is. 


No sweaty palms. No churning in the stomach as the plane took off or landed. No wild, anxiety-ridden thoughts of terrorism or planes exploding in mid-air. Absolutely nothing. 

This, of course, concerns and perplexes me. And leads me to believe that I should never travel with anyone I happen to be sleeping with at the time. Seriously. Lovers seem to be a dumping ground for my fear of flying.

It’s too early in the morning to figure it all out. My only thought is this: when I am completely alone, there is no one to carry the heavy burden of fear but me. Well, I don’t want to carry it. I want someone else to. But there’s no one else. And since I can’t dump my anxiety anywhere….I just don’t have any.  Problem solved. Amazing.

Story number two.

So…i get down there around twoish and my brother is already stoned and drunk and walking around in a wife-beater with a rope tied at the belt loops holding up his pants. A redneck in paradise. A true contradiction.  So it’s sunny and mid-seventies and all I want to do is lie in the sun. But we have work to do at the bank so we shamble across the street and after  nearly two hours of filling out papers and signing documents, we’re done. My job is officially over.

The rest of the time was spent pool-side, drinking Kalik, reading, writing and listening to the soundtrack from the Sheltering Sky, pretending I’m in the Sahara, and Betty Blue, pretending I’m in France. And even the Darjeeling Limited, pretending I’m in India. Ah! To pretend again. 

I sat in the sun from 8:30 in the morning until two in the afternoon on Thursday. I sat so long that I finally realized my brain is, indeed, capable of thinking thoughts other than S and G. Moving back to Spain. Graduate school. Traveling with the kids to Marrakech, work stuff and even the kinkiest of sex positions that I need to try before I die. 

I upgraded to first class on my way home. And sat next to a very VP of such and such a company on the Main Line, with three kids, a wife and a house in Key West, PA and NJ. We talked for two hours straight and after about five Chardonnays he says, “so how long have you been divorced?” 

“About 4 years,” I tell him. 

“And is it amicable?”

“I suppose,” I say, wondering where he’s going with that.

“And so, pardon me for asking,” he says, “but are you single now?”

I almost said no. But I figured, what the hell. He seems like a decent guy with no real ulterior motive. 

“Yes.” I smile.  “I am single. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” he says, ” it’s not that I’m a matchmaker,  but a friend of mine…very nice guy, director of HR at my company is recently divorced and well,” he pauses, “well…you seem like such a nice woman. You’re attractive. The right age. You have a lot going on in your life…all very desirable,” he says. And then he adds, “I mean, it is possible that you could be crazy, but it doesn’t seem so.”

“I could be,” I say, and we laugh. He hands me his business card and says, “please send me an email about the Res-Q stuff” (his son has ADHD). I take the card and mark a page in my copy of Blink with it. “Will do.”

I hopped off the plane and dashed for the economy parking bus. I love first class, I thought. 

I bumped into G and his dad at the gas station. We smiled. And chit-chatted.  I reached out of my window and grabbed his hand and held it for a moment, as if to say, all is forgiven

I was home by six. Warm and safe and with my two favorite little guys in the whole world.

1 thought on “Home

  1. Pingback: Worry « VolumeOneHundred

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s