On peeing. And some other stuff.

Let me set the scene. It was about 11:30 at night yesterday and i'd just spent four hours on a delayed train from New York(I would like to thank the freak sitting next to me who smelled like ...something truly unidentifiable. I was feeling too lazy to shower last night, but opted to do so immediately upon returning home. I overslept this morning and wouldn't have had one otherwise!). I'd been loading up on water all day and it had caught up to me somewhere around Bridgewater, CT. I could not, however, force myself to take the "walk of shame" (or what I imagine to be one), and use the bathroom on the train. There's something incredibly disconcerting about walking into a bathroom in front of all of those people. You might as well be wearing a sign advertising that within the next minute you will be sitting with your pants around your ankles.

So, by the time I had traveled the remaining 2 hours between Bridgewater and home, taken the T to my stop, and walked home from there, my teeth were positively SWIMMING. I was dancing, prancing around like Richard Simmons (and my hair, succumbing to the humidity of the weekend, was paying homage to him, as well), when I realized that I couldn't find my keys. Panic consumed me and I threw everything on the ground, frantic to locate the precious metal before I either exploded or did something I haven't done (to my knowledge) since I was three years old. Engulfed in darkness (I don't have a loving boyfriend/husband/anything at all to thoughtfully leave a light on for me), I struggled until my hand emerged from my bag, triumphantly wielding the key to my salvation.

It wasn' t over. Not until the formerly fat lady pees. My next task proved even more difficult- Fitting the key into the two locks and performing the various special wiggles and turns (sometimes I even have to peform a ritualistic dance) required before I can enter my own home. Finally, the door burst open and I rushed forth, leaving my baggage in the doorway and running up the stairs.

Of course I tripped.

What a weekend! I went on a cruise around the island of Manhattan, visited with my aunt and uncle and generally got away from the chaos that is my everyday life. For my own safety I would like to say that I am still an extremely loyal member of Red Sox nation. With that being said, I really love NYC. It has a flavor all of its own and although Boston will always be number one in my heart, part of me wonders what it would be like to pack it all up and move to NYC...or anywhere else for that matter.

Lately, I've had an itch. Don't worry, it's not one that requires prescription cream or shots, rather, it's an itch to get out of what seems to be a rut for me. I want to travel. I want more than one lousy stamp in my passport. I want to see the country, the world. I want to step out of my comfort zone and my safe, familiar life. Mostly, I want to expand my horizons and find my passion in life. I just need to find somewhere to start. How overwhelming. It's funny. I always thought that "finding yourself" or the desire to change or enhance your life in some fundamental way was just a "spiel," a way to make you feel like your life was missing something or empty. Now I finally get it.