Month 9 of the Year 30

                This month as my “first” was clothes-related, I thought I’d open with one of my earliest clothes memories.

                When I was at my kindergarten graduation, I remember squatting on the stage with my fellow graduates for group pictures. I can still recall looking out into the audience, smiling proudly and holding up my certificate. I can also recall the smiling, laughing sea of faces. When I got home, my family informed me what the cause of some of the laughter was. That day I was rocking a soft yellow knee-length jumper with a floral print and accessorizing with a headband. I was also rocking the un-ladylike pose of a squat on a raised stage and my underwear was showing for all the world to see. I would have long forgotten this little faux-pas except for the photos that memorialize it and which family members continue to erupt with laughter at.

                I could tell another embarrassing kindergarten story of how I conceived that it would be a fun idea to wear no underwear at all to school one day—might not have been a problem except that I was wearing the aforementioned yellow jumper. I could tell that story but then it would seem I have some weird obsession with undergarments (given the pair I wore on my head last month) so I best let it lie there.

                Well, this month my dedication to the Year 30 was severely tested. I have been swamped, stressed, overloaded, overwhelmed—did I mention busy?—with work, full-time graduate classes, and student teaching (and a knee injury that has temporarily halted my running). But I’ve remained committed to seeing this year’s adventures through, even if my hair turns completely gray by the end of the semester.

                For three Friday nights this month (and two Saturday mornings) I left my hectic life and entered a haven of calm that is my friends’ Leah and Sarah’s house. You see, they had offered to teach me how to S.E.W. and as these are my initials (no joke), I imagined it would come fairly naturally.

                Leah and Sarah (sisters) bravely took me on as their pupil. The first Friday night we went to a fabric store and selected a pattern and a fabric. Sarah mentioned that an easy pattern would have an elastic waist and no frills. But of course the pattern I liked most was for a flouncy skirt with a waistband, a zipper, and two pockets with cute bows. The girls and I agreed that we might as well go big or go home. I selected a light blue twill fabric that would be appropriate in any season. At this point, we were all still optimistic and bright, not letting the fact that the fabric store didn’t have twill tape on hand deter us. We were confident, ready. I thought I would have a skirt by the next morning, though Leah cautioned against chrono-optimism.

               

Reality set in, though, when we unfurled the directions, which were written in Greek. “Press 5/8” top seam on the front left side. Baste.” And there were like 29 steps written like this! It was actually more like 42 steps but the sewing experts know that 42 steps would discourage novices so they bundle several steps into one. I occasionally asked, after hours of intensive labor, what step we were on and invariably we were still on step 2 or 3.

                Needless to say, it was a lot of work but I learned a lot of cool things. Like that basting is not just something you do in the kitchen. I really liked pinning the pattern to the cloth; it would take awhile and we had to take the pins right out again, but it was still fun. I also enjoyed working the sewing machine; I think it would be fun to work the pedal and make stitches even if you were just sewing your thumbs together.

                I marveled at Leah and Sarah’s patience as they watched me slowly pin, iron, stitch—for hours—and on five different occasions. Sarah told me to include in this blog that I asked them if I had correct “sewing form” – which I thought a valid question at the time. I think that at the moment I asked that question, one arm was sticking through the interior part of the machine and the other arm around the outer part so that I was hunched over the sewing machine kind of bear-hugging it. I think I needed some guidance as to form at that moment.

                The first weekend we worked on cutting the pieces and making these elaborate pockets with bows. Every time I made a mistake, and the girls said we needed to rip the seam and do it again, my response was that no one would notice that little mistake. Thankfully, they did make me re-do those mistakes because all told, the mistakes would have finally become noticeable.

                Probably my biggest mistake that first weekend (we usually had one big one every weekend) was cutting the fabric for a much longer skirt than I had wanted—but that was easily rectified.

                The second weekend the skirt really came together and the whole process started to make more sense to me. Mom Gillian stepped in to help us with installing a zipper, which was actually kind of harrowing. The largest mistake that weekend was that I put the zipper on the wrong side of the skirt. Did not know: women’s zippers are supposed to be on the left side of the body. Mine is going to be on the right side. Please don’t judge.

                I dashed over the third Friday night of September around 8:45 to see the project through to completion. We had like four steps left (in sewers’ terms, like 12 steps). We worked awhile, somewhat delirious with tiredness, yet trying to make the September deadline. It came time to try the zipper and pull the waistband together—and it came together, sort of. It was actually funny—the two sides of my skirt didn’t match up at all. One side was higher than the other and the zipper was askew.

Leah broke the news that this was, in fact, a major setback that would take hours to rectify…and it was already close to 11 p.m. So I bailed—yes, it’s true. Leah and Sarah offered me a lifeline and I took it; they are planning to rip the top of the skirt apart and put it back together correctly for me.

                So let me conclude with a few reflections on sewing:

1.       Sewing takes a lot of time and work. Did I find myself saying “I could buy a skirt at ROSS for $25 or less and be out of the store in 20 minutes, as opposed to 25 hours of sewing?” I confess the thought crossed my mind. But ROSS couldn’t give me the learning experience, which was what it was all about, after all.

2.       I am not writing off sewing. I’m fascinated by the handwork, the precision required, the different side of my brain I got to exercise. When I had to measure cloth with a ruler, I was a bit flummoxed as I haven’t really measured since elementary school.

3.       Sewing is best done with friends who make it more of a social event. It would be really scary to see what I would have done with a sewing machine and blue twill fabric if I had been on my own. I once tried crocheting and I just crocheted a dome shape that most resembled an alien’s hatwear. That was the last time I used crocheting needles. Hopefully the same will not be true of sewing.

Thanks, Sarah and Leah!! Can’t wait to try on the new skirt!

ADDENDUM

Several days have passed since I drafted the above. Yesterday I arrived home around 10 p.m. after a long, rough day to be greeted by a large package. Inside was my completed (corrected) skirt!!! Thanks so much, girls J

Month 8 of the Year 30

         When I decided that one of my “firsts” was going to be taking a spontaneous, uncharted roadtrip with a friend, I instantly knew who that friend would be.

          My friend Julia is a lifelong friend who I’ve literally known since birth, though we didn’t become close until our late teens. Julia is my opposite; she is very laid-back, go-with-the-flow and spontaneous, whereas I am tightly wound, and very plan- and schedule-oriented. Julia will accompany a friend on a midnight shopping trip to Walmart at the drop of a hat. Any “friend” who called me up at midnight for a Walmart run might not get the most Christian response. (You see, I hadn’t planned that Walmart trip and I would calculate how much sleep I’d lose and how tired I’d feel the next day, etc.)

          So if I wanted to take a daytrip filled with spontaneous fun, it would have to be with Julia. It also had to be with Julia because we needed desperately to redeem ourselves. On one of our last trips together (many years ago actually), we traveled to the North Carolina mountains. On our return home, we set out on our 1 ½ hour drive home, singing to music and chatting, not noticing that we had missed our early turn off. We drove and drove (for hours) without paying attention to where we were going, not noticing that nothing looked familiar—until finally we saw a sign for Augusta, Georgia! We were mortified. Turns out, we were nearer to Columbia than Augusta, but our 1 ½ hour trip home extended into a five hour trip by the time it was over.

          This roadtrip then was made for us—no schedule and no rules. I wanted to drive with no destination, turning left and right as the mood hit me, embracing spontaneity. Now to be honest, we did plan to drive towards the North Carolina mountains to ensure we’d end up somewhere interesting, so we sort of cheated, I guess.

          To also ensure that we had adventures along the way, I crafted an extensive “Checklist of Fun” filled with items for us to attempt to complete throughout the day. Some items on the list that we did not do but I wish we had: taking a photo with roadkill, finding 30 of something, and working a nonsense word multiple times into a conversation with a stranger. We did manage to pull off other funny things, as you will see…

          1. Dance in parking lot. Okay, this one we actually added to the checklist after we did it just so we could check it off. We pulled away from my house around 9:15 a.m. on a Saturday and headed through Cherryville and beyond towards Morganton. (We went through a lot of small towns like Morganton, Rutherfordton, Marion, Old Fort, Black Mountain, and Montreat). Our first bit of fun was dancing the electric slide in a parking lot in full view of the road.

          2. Wear outrageous clothing item. This may be the thing I get the most flack for but it was also the funniest. Now early on it was necessary that we set the tone for our trip—did we have chutzpah enough to fulfill this checklist or did we not? Were we men or were we mice? We drove past a yard sale stationed outside of a small business and hosted by several vendors. Before turning around to drive back, we affixed a pair of underwear to my head like a bandana, rolling the waistband under and sort of pulling it back with a claw clip. We drove back to the yard sale. It was kind of hard, let me tell you, to approach people with a smile on my face and act like I wasn’t wearing underwear on my head. Julia kept trying hard not to laugh because according to her, my headdress looked pretty ridiculous in the box. I don’t think anyone at the yard sale even noticed or perhaps they thought we were introducing a new style. We shot this photo before leaving. After this, we knew we were equal to almost anything.

          3. Carry/use a prop. Our next stop was at a really cute country store. We donned hats and I carried a fan and fanned myself like a Southern belle. The proprietor greeted us with a blunt: “What’s up with the hats?” Julia’s had crazy black and white feathers on the front of it so it was hard to ignore. The proprietor’s dog began barking at us soon after we entered, and the proprietor deduced that her dog was just barking at our hats. A little later, while perusing the store’s shelves, Julia overheard a male customer telling the proprietor that when he saw Julia’s hat, he thought it was a skunk and almost went to get his gun. Somehow I don’t doubt that this man’s gun was ever very far from his person.

         

          4. Play Chinese red light.

          5. Crazy car dancing.

          6. Sing loud and off-key at stoplight. Yes, we did these things but there’s not much to say about them…

          As I mentioned earlier, our goal was to drive into the mountains. For awhile, it seemed we were circling the mountain or that the mountains were moving as we tried to drive toward them. Finally, we saw a sign for Lake Lure and we followed the winding road up. By now it had taken us over three hours to meander up the mountain and we were hungry.

          7. We stopped and ate at a beautiful Italian restaurant overlooking the lake.

Here was opportunity for a little further fun. I pretended that I could only speak French. This meant that Julia did all of the ordering and speaking for us. I had trouble thinking of French phrases quickly enough but I do remember saying “Merci” a lot to the waitress. Since we never actually told the waitress that I didn’t speak English, I think she just thought there was something wrong with me. So when I would look up at her and smile sweetly, she would cut her eyes at me but then awkwardly turn to confer only with Julia. So I’m not sure if she thought that I didn’t speak English or that I had problems, but either way, I made her very uncomfortable.

          8. At Chimney Rock, we dipped our feet in a body of water which was on the list.

What was not on the list was my walking in on a father and son using the bathroom side by side. We were at a business that only had one outdoor restroom for both sexes. I opened the door wide and started to enter when I noticed that there was a man and his young son standing inside with their backs toward me. I said I was sorry and hurried away. When they emerged, the man was angry, not at me per se, but at his wife who apparently was supposed to be guarding the door (because it was too hard to latch it??). NOT on my list.

          As the afternoon wore on, we continued up the mountain, went back down, went back up again, followed signs that looked interesting, drove in and out of rainstorms.

          9. Walk with a limp. Yes, I’m strange but I had perfected a really funny limp where I kind of dragged one leg behind me in a ridiculously exaggerated way. When I say dragged, I mean I used both arms to pull the leg after me. When we made a bathroom stop at Hardees (indoor restrooms for both sexes there), I dragged my leg behind me to the door, then inside to the restroom, and back out again. It was not the Hardees rush hour so there weren’t many people around, but those who did notice weren’t impressed. I’ll need to practice it some more, I guess.

          10. Pretend to work somewhere along the way. We had ratcheted up our courage a good bit by now so we pulled over to a Dollar General and pretended (one at a time) to be greeters. So when a customer walked up (I was standing outside the door), I welcomed him or her cordially to Dollar General. After only the second customer, Julia hurriedly called me over. “I think that person you just welcomed works here.” It made sense--she was wearing a yellow shirt and she kind of laughed when I greeted her. Not long after, we were on the road again.

          11-14. We ended our adventures in Asheville and tried to knock out as many items on the checklist as we could: Take photo with a stranger. Take photo with something purple. Find interesting graffiti. Try a new food or drink.

 

where I met the "stranger" I took the photo with



          We ate at a very cool Mediterranean place where we sat on cushions on the floor.

I tried some new foods, like falafel. At this restaurant a belly dancer was making her rounds between the two rooms. Whenever she’d come dancing in, she’d have a different prop—some candles, a sword, a tip basket. It was one of those awkward situations where you don’t really know how to act or where to look, but above all you want to appear nonchalant and sophisticated. Here’s this woman dancing suggestively over your table and you don’t know whether to ignore her, smile and nod at her, or what. So I just filmed Julia looking awkward. (Sorry, Jules; you’ll notice I didn’t post the video clip J)

          15. Probably the most gutsy thing we did do in Asheville was that I pretended to be a caricaturist. We sat in a busy town square where lots of people were passing by and I opened my big notebook, which looked somewhat like a sketch pad. I spoke to Julia like she was a customer while I drew a head shot of her. Of course, if you know me, you know I’m a terrible artist and that was the point. People walked by, saw a caricaturist drawing someone, and did what was natural—looked over my shoulder (according to Julia). What they saw was a child-like rendering of something that looked nothing like Julia. And they kept on walking. I’m proud of that one.

          So, all in all, it was a successful roadtrip. Thirteen hours on the road, we didn’t get terribly lost, we finally found the mountains, and we stretched our normally shy, retiring selves in at least fifteen ways.

         

(Shout-out to Julia who is approaching her 30^th in a month!)

Month 7 - The Birth Month - of the Year 30

I’m a big birthday person. No surprises there. Who else do you know that celebrates a birthday all year long?!! Every year I’m treated to about a week of celebrations (my friends tease me mercilessly about this). Therefore, because this year was a major milestone, I dedicated a whole year to it. When July 28^th is gone, I plan to keep celebrating (and blogging) the rest of the year.

I am not sure why I put so much emphasis on my birthday—or maybe I do... My dad asked me recently what I expected to happen on my birthday and I replied that I usually expected nothing less than fireworks and the stars to fall; I didn’t know how else to explain it. I always have a sense of expectancy and excitement that surpasses anything I have usually felt about past Christmases. This excitement can be both good and bad. Sometimes a silly person like myself is disappointed when the stars don’t fall and when she realizes that it is just another day. Such enthusiasm also places a certain unintended burden on my friends and family because they don’t want to disappoint me on my birthday. I am a birthday tyrant, I guess.

So…my “new” thing this month was to get my mind off of myself! J I tried to focus on giving gifts to others--thirty gifts, in fact. These gifts were by and large not financial or tangible. A gift might be helping someone in a very simple way. I wrote several notes to people letting them know how much they have meant to my life. Obviously, I am not going to detail the thirty gifts because to say any more would be tacky in the extreme. Instead I invite you to peruse some pictures I’ve posted of past birthdays. Perhaps you’ll even find yourself in one of the pictures!

 

7.28.81



The day after I was born, my mom watched Princess Di and Prince Charles get married on television. Perhaps that is where I got my princess complex. (By the way, that is my dad, not my mom -->)



3rd birthday



5th bday--first one I remember





8th birthday



Back in the day, a birthday at McDonald’s was exciting. I mean, look at our expressions.

Of course, I wanted to dress like a princess for my ninth birthday. This picture never fails to make my family laugh—a drama queen in the making. What could the surprise be? A pony? A trip to Disney World?

A Huffy bike in girly colors. Wishing now the "surprise" face was staged for the photo.

Besides McDonalds, Pizza Hut was also the cool place to go for 10^th birthdays…apparently. It was 1991, the year of the ridonculously big hairbows and fluorescent sox.

 My favorite birthday gift. Millie lived 16 years, dying just last year. (It's a goat, by the way. The picture is a little dark.)

For my 20^th birthday, my friend Julia orchestrated this really great surprise party for me at RJ Gators. That’s me getting “pied.”

21^st bday celebration at Applebees

Okay, so now I am realizing just how many surprise parties I've had over the years! Yet I was gullible enough to still be surprised by most of them. This my 23rd was a surprise as well.

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The grand entrance

      

   Guess What?! Surprise!!!! (24th)

<--- My 25th -- not a surprise :)

26th--House of Blues with the sibs

Bravo's at Northlake--28th

Last year’s birthday would have had great pictures, too, but alas, I was working at a children’s camp in Virginia where photographs were forbidden! Even though I was a stranger to everyone I worked with up there, they really blessed me on my birthday. The entire camp sang to me, random children gave me impromptu gifts, and my co-workers gave me a lovely little party. My favorite gift was a scrapbook in which each girl I’d worked with wrote a page filled with sweet messages. I realized last summer how loved I really was as cards and packages from back home poured into camp and people I’d just met tried to make me feel special.

If this journey down memory lane has done anything (more than try my readers’ patience), it has reminded me of the many years of love, friendship, and good memories I have enjoyed.



My 18th birthday was neat because I was working at a Christian retreat center in the mountains and all of my co-workers surprised me with a party in my room.

Month 6 of the Year 30

My memory is apparently not the greatest. Although I once prided myself on my ability to recall specific details about people and events from my childhood, now I’m often at a loss when people say, “Don’t you remember that time we…” No, I don’t; I’m getting old. Now others, like my sister, remember better than I things that I have done or that have happened to me.

For example, I recently reread two novels. Unintentionally. After waiting nine months to dive into my ambitious summer reading list, I realized that I had already read two of the five or six books I first tackled. As I read I would think, “Parts of this are sounding eerily familiar.” What is worse, I didn’t enjoy those novels the first time I read them, so it was a double downer. If only I had first checked my list against my sister’s memory. When I told my sister what I have been reading this summer, her response was: “Haven’t you read that before?”

My second lapse in memory this month was in trying to recall the details of a story I wanted to share; I could remember a bare outline of the event but none of the specifics. Thankfully, I’ve relied not on Allison’s memory for this story, but on my own handy travel journal. But first…

This month I had the wonderful experience of painting my first picture! I am not very artistic and I haven’t done any art work since middle school, probably, but my friend, Debbie Matthews, kindly agreed to take me on as a student so that I could produce a painting in a few short weeks that was decent enough for me to hang on my bedroom wall.

I met with Debbie three times in her home where she introduced me to many things painting-related, such as how to create perspective, how to apply different brush strokes, how to mix colors, how to use dry brush technique and make and apply a wash, and how to use a sponge to add texture. My painting was to be an impressionistic rendering of a path winding through the forest; it had a dreamy and romantic quality to it that I loved. Debbie cautioned that it would be challenging, but she said we could do it; I figured I might as well go for it while I was going!

Painting was fun but challenging and I was so afraid I would mess up. I needed step-by-step instructions from Debbie on how to…pretty much do everything. As I began painting, I was thrilled that what was supposed to be a picture of a path through woods actually looked like a path through woods! One of the many things I loved about working with Debbie was that she would gush: “Oh, I love it!!”--and be sincere. I think one of the marks of a great teacher is inspiring students to think they can do it; I have far from mastered that in my teaching so Debbie was an awesome model for me.

By the end of our third session, my first painting was completed, signed, and ready for hanging. But to see the finished product, you have to keep reading! (Okay, you could technically just scroll down to see the pictures but I hope you’ll take a minute to read the rest of this highly fascinating entry.)

Well, I obviously did not have any substantive memories of myself as an artist to reflect upon this month (and I probably would have forgotten them if I had). I have visited several art museums, however, so those experiences will have to suffice.

The first art exhibit I really appreciated was an impressive one of Monet’s paintings. Allison had urged our visiting the exhibit, and I hadn’t quite grasped its import until, standing among these breathtaking masterpieces, I said incredulously, “Are these, like, originals?!!” Allison, of course, had a heyday with this (“Did you think we came here to see copies?!!”).

My first foray into the world of fine art.

After this unpromising beginning, however, my appreciation for art has increased.

A few years ago, my sister and I visited the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Rouen, France. Unfortunately, it was one of those rush-rush visits in which we attempted to cram as much of Rouen and as much of the Musée as humanly possible into a few brief hours. Allison and I were forever missing trains in France and had already missed one earlier that day, so we were trying to be especially careful not to miss the last one back to Caen.

With only little more than an hour allotted for the Musée, we separated—turns out, a bad idea for me.

I think we may have been the only ones in the museum that afternoon, because museum staffers were always lurking around us, friendly but a little smothering. Well, a middle-aged male staffer evidently surmised that this American tourist needed a tutorial on the art I was viewing. He approached as I was taking in a beautiful Monet of the Rouen cathedral and remarked that this was the most beautiful piece in the series. Had I been to the cathedral? (Yes, we had booked it all over the cathedral as part of our whirlwind tour of Rouen.)

In broken English, my staffer began discussing some painting trick of Monet’s and led me back two rooms to a painting I’d already viewed. Trying to be polite by humoring him, I nevertheless inwardly revolted about losing time seeing the same painting twice. Hidden in the painting were the phrases “Vive la France” and “Vive la Republique,” and he instructed me to look for them. (It was kinda cool, I admit.)

My unsolicited museum tour guide led me to another Monet (which I’d already seen) and he showed me a face in the water of the painting. O-kay. When another worker came up and began excitedly discussing in French another face in the painting, I edged away and slipped into another room. Our train was leaving in less than an hour and I wanted to cram in as much “culture” as I could; it’s the American tourist’s motto, after all.

Before I knew it, the staffer was at my side again, showing me more “tricks” in another painting. He had me stand at different angles around the painting and observe how objects in the painting changed as I changed positions. I just kind of obeyed whatever he told me to do; well, he told me to stand here and look at the painting from this angle so who am I to refuse?

The fun continued as he and another worker (a female) trailed me. Finally, Allison emerged from some obscure gallery, and instead of rescuing me from my well-meaning stalker, she took in a few more paintings.

My staffer suddenly veered from the professional to the personal. How long had I been in France, had I been to Paris—which must have made Rouen seem so small in comparison—tee hee hee (did I mention his constant titter?).

Then he made some comment about “your boyfriend” and that was my aha! moment. You see, ladies, when you are unsure whether a guy’s stalking you in a museum and offering heaps of helpful advice indicates a sincere desire to be of assistance or something more, a reference to the boyfriend settles the matter. He hopes you’ll deny the existence of such a personage. Happily, I was no novice at such a ploy. My sure defense was to deflect with a laugh and to proceed to the next painting (because that had worked so well before, right?).

I was a bit flustered by this point; he kept speaking to the side of my face or my retreating back—I’m not sure which. Due to the broken English, I didn’t quite understand him but I did catch when he said, “very beautiful” and looked significantly at me.

I blushed because I thought he was directing those words at me, but as Allison and I discussed later, he may well have been referring to Paris, Rouen, or Monet, for all I could comprehend.

At any rate, Allison, who’d been in her own little world and thus blissfully unaware of her sister’s discomfiture, reappeared and unknowingly rescued me, hastening me off to our waiting train.

Now, as I promised for humoring me, here are the photos:

Month 5 of the Year 30

Plan A did not materialize this month but I had a couple of incidental “firsts” that will pinch hit for Plan A.

Early this month I participated in a book signing. I wrote in February about South Carolina People and Places and, following its publication this month, the four of us (authors and illustrator) autographed copies at the university bookstore. It was such a neat experience; I’ve wanted all my life to autograph my book so it’s pretty cool to have that dream realized. Two things are necessary when autographing: having a cool signature and a pithy comment. Well, seeing that my handwriting peaked when I was around 14 so that my signature looks like a bubbly teenage girl’s (and I have the pink floral cell phone to match) and that weeks later, I’m still waiting on a pithy remark to come to mind, I suppose I failed the two requirements for an effective autograph. Hopefully, I will work on this before I write and publish the next great American epic…

My second “first” this month is a little embarrassing because it makes me realize that my firsts are other people’s twentieths; there’s still so many things in life I’ve never done, but I hope to have many more years in which to experience them.

The day after the book signing, I flew on an airplane by myself for the first time (without friends or family accompanying). Flying is always a bit nerve-wracking to me; for some reason, the abundance of external stimuli at the airport overwhelms me: the voices over the intercom, the hordes of passengers scurrying by, the multiple gates, zones, and lines. Everyone else seems to know exactly what they’re doing while I walk around doe-eyed, trying not to look as clueless as I feel.

Even so, I planned my solo trip to Tampa to visit my sister this month. Upon arriving at Charlotte-Douglas and printing my ticket, flustered, I asked the agent, “What do I do next?” Now I had already been tutored by others as to what to do next, but I suppose I needed confirmation. A mere twenty feet away was step #2: the security checkpoint. There I benefited from watching and imitating other passengers as they removed shoes, liquids, and dignity, and passed it on through the x-ray machine. Sure, I’d done all that before, but it had been four years so I was a little rusty.

Once I’d finally made it in one piece on board the plane, my next concern was being able to pick up my heavy carry-on and stow it in the overhead compartment. I prayed: “Lord, please let there be a strong man nearby who will pick up my bag for me.” Sure enough, when I came to my seat, there was a tall, strapping Marine seated next to me who kindly placed my bag overhead. No big deal. You know, it’s the most miniscule details that get me worked up—but the possibility of crashing—I didn’t worry about that at all. (I noticed my obsession with details again when I spoke at my old school last week; before speaking, I fixated on the microphone and whether I would be able to adjust it to the right height when I was onstage. I wasn’t.)

Well, the flight was lovely—said Marine and I talked and talked almost the whole flight (I had forgotten to unpack my novel due to my anxiety to get that bag stored). As we landed, I got a little nervous again about those nitpicky details. I was a little overwhelmed about finding my way to baggage claim because my sister had provided such vague directives as “take the shuttle” and “ride the escalator.” What shuttle where? Which escalator? Her response to my fears was something like: “Elisabeth, young children and the blind fly alone; you can do this.”

Finally, we landed. When I fly, my ears fill with screaming pressure and it usually takes a few hours after the flight for them to clear (and yes, I chew gum the entire flight). The first time it happened, my sister and I had landed in France. We had not slept all night and we were trying to navigate a foreign airport laden with bags, and I was partially deaf. I would ask Allison if I was shouting, but it turns out I was whispering. The pain and semi-deafness persisted so long, I wondered if I’d gone deaf in Paris…you know how your mind imagines the worst in those situations. (I hadn’t.)

Anyway, I arrived in Tampa partially deaf, smiling sweetly and nodding when I didn’t understand what the Marine or the other seat partner was saying. Perhaps that was dishonest or plain stupid, but it seemed the thing to do at the time.

My kind Marine friend collected my bag for me and I pretty much followed him like a puppy dog off the plane and around the airport. Indeed there was a shuttle, but it was not quite so intimidating now. I don’t usually advocate following strange men around but these were desperate circumstances and he seemed reliable. Case in point, he eventually pointed me in a different direction from the one in which he was going, and I found myself in baggage claim greeting my sister.

I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily an expert flyer now; on the way back, I had Allison tell me twice where to go and what to do to get myself from Tampa to Charlotte, but I’m sure if I flew more often, I would conquer it before long. I can see myself now, striding through the airport with the self-assured gait of the frequent (thirty year-old) flyer.