Twenty-Five Days

Oh dear God, I have twenty-five days before I leave the country. Twenty-five days to get my head wrapped around the fact that I will be living overseas for six months. On my own. Overseas. Did I mention that I'll be on my own?

Oh, dear God.

I'm watching the Chronicles of Narnia and lusting after the beautiful landscape and the wonderful people of New Zealand. Whatever niggling urge had me clicking on the link, back in March, that said 'University of Otago, New Zealand' is a blessed urge.

In twenty-five days (and some number of hours) I will be flying out from Charlotte across the country - on my own - and then flying over the Pacific - on my own. No safety net, no backups, no one there to calm me down when I can't remember my gate and flip out. (OK, so my parents will be standing by the phone, or in my mother's case, hovering, but still. I have the on the ground illusion of independence.)

Do you have any idea how phenomenal and terrifying this is? I'm a girl who went to school ten minutes from my parents' house; who has flown by herself ONCE, and that only a year and a bit ago. I have no doubts (I cannot doubt) that I'll be fine once I get going. It's just that waiting and counting down the days might kill me first.

I know that once I'm there I'll be homesick and tired and lonely (especially after my boyfriend leaves and I have to go to school in a new country, alone). I fully expect this experience to drive my personal growth through the roof. I can't wait to hike, swim, run, fly, dance, laugh, cry, sneeze, and hopefully not freeze on another continent. ANOTHER CONTINENT. I hyperventilate just thinking about it.

Plane tickets around the world are not cheap, people. I can't screw this up. My safety net takes a minimum of seventy two hours to reach me, not counting delays and domestic flight times. Obviously, I have my darling love and his family, but should I lose a limb shark tubing, or fall off a cliff or get concussed and lose my memory, I'll want my family with me. Walking your fingers from the East Coast of the United States to the little green islands of New Zealand takes some time. Flying takes more time.

I guess that's why my study abroad contract has that little clause stipulating 'repatriation of remains.' Yucky, but necessary.

Whatever. I will be bold, I will be daring. I will rock this six month adventure and come back wanting to go again, and again, and again.

And the best part of it all?
I can go. Again and again and again.

Because I can do everything I want to, damn it. (Pardon my French.)
WolfGrrl