|Same photo. Different Thought.|
"Are you getting excited about leaving?" a number of friends ask me almost every day. I'm never quite sure how to answer that question.
"No," I usually lie. They usually blink at me in confusion, and I usually reply that I'm getting there.
If you know me very well, you know that I keep most emotions pretty close. (Side note: It's heredity, I tell you. Remember the Murphy Brown episode in which Frank gave his parents a big party, and they complained?
"You're never happy," he moaned. "I buy you a Cadillac, you complain because it's too big. If I bought you a smaller car, you'd complain because it's too small. You didn't want a party, but if I hadn't given it, you'd complain. I give you a surprise party, and you complain because it's not a big blow out. I give up!"
"We're Italian! We're Catholic!" his father snaps back. "You act too happy, God will take it all back."
That explains my mother, I tell you. It rubbed off on me.)
At any rate, the truth of the matter is that I'm very excited, and I'm very anxious.
But let me tell you a little secret: If I had the nerve, I would dance. Dance. Fling my head back. Throw my arms out. Spin around. Do cartwheels. Jump in the air and touch my toes.
Something in me makes me hold back, though. If you look at the photo at the top of this post, you can see it. Yes, I flung out the old arms and was at the start of a twirl, but I look pained. Instead of flying through the air, my hands and fingers are in a tight ball. Good grief. I look like I have indigestion.
Secret#2: I worry that I'd look like a fool, so I hold it in.
But, I'm letting go in my head. Does that count?
8 days, by the way....