gettin' gone

So this happened over the weekend.  I raced from my mailbox with my small, official-looking envelope to my front door, screaming to my roommate, What does this package look like, huh?  What does this look like to you? 

I am a small child on Christmas morning.  Aggressive.  Wanton.

That analogy is unimaginative certainly, but rightfully overused perhaps, because can't you picture it? 

Or maybe it's better to describe it as a long-awaited letter from a lover who is surely fond of me but hasn't said it yet and today is the day I find out what my future holds. 

Yes, yes, maybe more like that -- I adore you, lover, and that means I will open up the world to you.

Let’s get intimate! 

(He and I or she and I or the goddamn passport and I, but definitly You and I – as in, welcome to my first real blog post.)  Squeeaaaaaaaaal.  For $150, I have permission to go wherever I want.

So where are we going?  Where are we going?

Ha!  And yeah, generally, that's the sentiment.  But it's not the point entirely and to assume that is the only point would be to skip over something important.

I'm gettin' gone.  Like some Alan-Watts-inspired-experiment where I remember never to be bored by my ordinary life, as I prepare myself to travel, I enjoy every minute of it.

And this week, for the first time in my life, if someone asks me to go, if I choose to go alone, I don't have to say no because I can say yes.  The love affair on Christmas morning, this little blue book, ha -- it's delight in possibility.

So sail on.  (And thanks for reading.)