When I was driving to Irvine last Thursday night, & Thad's forehead was on his knees and it was just my iPod, my iced coffee, the moon, and myself, it hit me that maybe I'm in the wrong profession. Was I destined to be a trucker and I missed my calling? I could've driven all night and the whole next day through and been just as elated as I had when we left the In In Out drive thru. You know. The promise of going far, far away. The way the excitement of a road trip peaks in the first hour and never quite comes back? I never had that. Not this time.
I listened to the same 10 songs over and over and felt like I was racing the moon to California. It occurred to me then -- somewhere between Blythe and Chiriaco Summit, somewhere after the "STATE PRISON 2 MILES" sign and the "DO NOT PICK UP HITCHIKERS" sign -- that I have not felt altogether myself lately.
I felt strange being alone in the desert. Unavailable. I felt like a phone off the hook. I felt awkward, with only myself to attend to. I revisited winding paths of daydreams I used to have. How long had it been since I'd daydreamed?
Daydreams say a lot about a person. They are concious choices. Where you want to be, what you want to say, the things you want to have, re-creations of things you wished you could have done/said/felt. It was like being re-introduced to myself.
Thankfully, by the time we made it to Irvine I was too delirious to think much of anything, other than how comfortable Sue's couch felt.
Thad and I are extremely grateful for Sue and Lane. I have never left an encounter with them without having been sharpened/uplifted/encouraged. It's also really nice having an excuse to go to Disneyland. The way reading Hemingway tastes like salt, being at Disneyland feels like childhood happy. Lane and I were discussing how even the dirty water/gunpowder smell of Pirates of the Carribbean feels magical.
So we had a long and tiring weekend, and Thad came home sick, but it was good for us.
It's just that now I'm here and I don't know what to do.