Everything today has felt slightly off-axis.
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On Wednesday I rearranged everything in my apartment, which in a 550 sq. ft. space involved a lot of three-point-turns and otherwise unnecessary shuffling to get things reoriented. Yesterday I was barely home, so today marks the first full day I have spent in what feels like an astonishingly different setup. I forced (er, phorced) myself to part with a desk I'd held onto for twelve years because I finally owned up to the fact that it is too large for my current place. The bed is where the couch was and vice versa, the cat is in full panic "things are different and a mess so we must be moving" mode, and I can't find a thing.
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This morning I got a haircut, which makes looking in the mirror a little funhouse, as well. And on the way back from the hair appointment I had the following conversation with the woman who works at the coffeeshop next door:
B: Nice haircut
A: Thanks! I just got it.
B: Next door?
A: Yep!
B: It looks really good. [pause] Is that your natural color?
A: Yes.
Let me be clear: my hair color is unchanged. I have not dyed my hair since 2006. There is a smattering of grey in there, too, but thankfully it always seems to hide under other hair that is still brown. For now, at least.
But what was horrifying about this was not the dye mistake, but the realization that I am at the precipice where in a year or two or three being asked if my hair is its natural color mutates from being an innocent, curious question to being an inappropriate one. And I felt really old in a way that startled me.
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Since the 4th of July or perhaps even before the 4th, I have been home alone. There are only two other tenants in the building and both are very quiet. The only reason I know if they're home at all is that from the stairwell I can sometimes hear my next door neighbor's TV and my downstairs neighbor's dogs bark when anyone opens the front door to the house. At first it was kind of cool but alone and quiet always feels slightly wrong in a city. When I went down into the basement to retrieve my laundry and saw a giant water bug scurry across the floor, I screamed like a girl. Then a few minutes ago when I was trying to make the kitchen somewhat presentable, I found myself with my back turned to the rest of the apartment, washing dishes to nothing but the sound of running water. I tried humming but that really ratcheted up the crazy. There I was, methodically scrubbing the inner workings of my French press and laying them out in a grid to dry. Next on to the carving knives. I felt like I'd accidentally stepped into the opening scene of a gruesome horror film.
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All of everything giving me the heeby-jeebies is really just a redirect for my anxiety about traveling tomorrow. I love being in other places but I dread the getting there part and the prep time that goes into it. It becomes a perpetual "did I leave the stove on?" feeling that cannot be tamed by even the most precise to-do list. An epic series of what ifs parades around in my head starting a day or so before I depart somewhat against my will. What if my cat sitter loses my house keys? What if I read my ticket wrong and I leave from another terminal? What if I don't remember to pack something really important like shoes or a toothbrush or my passport? What if my alarm doesn't go off tomorrow? etc etc etc. This particular trip is the perfect storm of triggers for this behavior cycle: international trip (1) to a non-English-speaking country for which I know enough of the native language to try but not enough to feel totally comfortable (2) on a plane (3) for work (4).
I would like to say that most of this problem is having to make arrangements for my very old and very sick cat, combined with my seemingly uncontrollable trending towards the absentminded professor end of the organizational spectrum. But I was always a wreck about travel - even back when the cat was healthy and I had so many housemates that finding a cat sitter was a non-issue - and even back when I had many fewer obligations and fewer things to keep track of. Unsurprisingly I am a bad flyer (not like "STOP THE PLANE!! LET ME OUT!!" right before takeoff but definitely some white knuckles gripping the armrest during ascent and descent and any remotely significant turbulence). There were a few terrible years about a decade ago where I refused to go anywhere because I didn't want to deal with it. It has gotten much easier since then but I still feel like I lose a day or two to double-checking what I'm packing, cutting up pills for the cat, making phone calls, and taking antacids.
At the heart of it all: I am such a homebody. I like to sleep in my own house in my own bed and wake up in my own city. Travel requires me to put this nesting instinct on hold. I always enjoy these times away from home so much, and in the last two years I have been fortunate to see many places new to me because of my job. Every time I go somewhere I marvel at the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells and exclaim "I could totally live here!" And I could. But I just couldn't easily leave it.
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