You won't be around forever, girl,
You've gotta grab life with both hands
What, I thought, was the salient point? What would explain me in a single thought?
That I almost always have ear plugs in my carry-on luggage?
Like Betty Draper in Mad Men, I was raised to believe that it is impolite to talk about myself. Telling stories on my blog is ok, but talking about myself is quite uncomfortable.
So, this is how it started:
I got on a plane.
I got on a plane and had an interview for college or a job in Washington, D.C. or Los Angeles. I got lost in a blizzard.
I got on a plane and almost had a stroke trying not to laugh in Lenin's tomb because the guys with bayonets made me so nervous.
I got on a plane and when I got off, I wandered around Pensacola with a bunch of Marines (one of whom was my brother) in an old avocado green station wagon with a flamingo head wired to the grill.
I got on a plane and went kayaking in a fjord in Iceland.
I got on a plane and spent an afternoon lying in a sand dune talking about life, the universe and everything with my closest friend from high school.
I got on a plane and got lost when we got off the Autobahn and the signs pointing both directions said Hof.
I got on a plane and saw a concert at Radio City Music Hall.
...saw a concert in Puerto Rico.
...went to a beach in Puerto Rico and rethought the way my life runs.
...went to Santa Monica beach on a grunion run.
...went on a Tommy's run.
...went on a Burrito King run.
...went on a run and tore the arch of my foot.
...tore the ligaments in my knee while skiing.
...tore my nail while baking bread.
...make the school lunches with home-baked bread.
...made all the lunches in advance before I got on the plane in May and made new bread when I got back.
...I got on a plane.
And I almost always have ear plugs in my carry-on luggage.
Go listen to some good music: "Post Punk Progression" from the album Final Straw by Snow Patrol.