I'm getting restless. You know that feeling right before the car crash? When you can see the back of the car in front of you getting closer and everything moves in slow motion but you know there's no way you can stop from ramming into it and so you just sit there, waiting for the point of impact and wishing it would just hurry up and happen already and wondering what it'll be like when it's over? Will every bone in your body be crushed, or will you walk away stronger and better than ever like the time that kid broke his arm and then was the best pitcher in major league baseball? You know, like in "Rookie of the Year." It could totally happen.
I'm NOT saying that the wedding and everything that follows will be a car crash. No, NO, NO. Well, the wedding itself might be a train wreck because open bar, beetchesssss, but I'm talking about change. We've reached the point of the final countdown. I've never been happier or more excited in my entire life. But following the wedding comes the move from Philadelphia to Boston, the change of jobs, the leaving of my family, the task of making new friends, and the all around starting from scratch that has me a bit antsy.
It's not that I'm dreading it. In fact, I'm pretty excited about it. And equally terrified. But I just wish it would happen already so I can stop worrying about it and just do it. Long planning periods get me all uppity. It's kind of like getting directions. If the actual giving of directions turns out to take more than 36 seconds of my time, my mind shuts off, I stop paying attention, and I start wondering how many eggrolls I could fit into my mouth at once.
Telling me a big change is about to happen -- a change that will literally rearrange every aspect of my life as I know it -- is kind of like locking a six year old in a room with nothing except a chair, a crate of fireworks, and a blow torch and telling him to be good, you'll be back in six weeks. Someone's either gonna go crazy or blow their arm off.
Or like when you're jumping out of planes. You don't make up your mind to jump out of that plane and then sit in the cockpit reading about the most embarrassing places to get caught having sex in this month's Cosmo and giggling over the word cockpit. You say you're gonna jump and you fucking jump. Like, right now.
B's gotten pretty good at reading my moods recently. He can usually tell in a look or two where my head is. This is probably because when he gets home from work I'm either bopping around, singing to myself, making dinner, and playing with the dog, or I'm lying on my back on the floor with no pants and an empty bottle of wine at my side. And I'm usually all, "don't speak, my head hurts from thinking." And B's always all, "oh, well does your face hurt?" And that's when I punch him in the mouth because we all know where that one is going.
So what I propose right now is that my job just let me go on a highly-paid vacation until September so I can mentally prepare myself and then everyone wins because I stop losing my mind and the people in my office stop worrying about the day that I actually do set my desk on fire.