The search for the Count continues. I am obsessed with having a bowl of Count Chocula
cereal before I hop on that plane. It does not have to be served Jennifer Lancaster style--with a healthy spalsh of half and half-- I am content to take it with the icky one percent in my parents' fridge. But so far, the closest I have come is yucky ol' Boo Berry, and that just isn't right for me.
Sigh. You'd think I'd be more worried and upset about returning to the Big C without my child, and in truth, I am, but how many times can you wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, freaking out that your baby girl is leaving you to go off to the big big city when she still can't pick her socks up off the floor by herself? (The record for me is eight.) Count Chocula is my harmless vent. If I obsess over this, rather than the fact Lulu lost her ATM card and I will have to clean up the back bedroom to find it, then I feel as if life has been rather more kind to me than it actually has.
Yesterday I saw or spoke to or dined with three old friends: one for lunch, one for dinner, one for a long phone conversation. This is more contact with the past then I have had since I finished high school back in the early, early 80's. Part of me is still dazed, part of me got back little chunks of my soul, things I thought were gone. It's hard to explain: I've been AWAY for so long leading this completely different life, so many years of it without neighbors, people who spoke English, or friends or family who gave a damn about me, that to return from this self-imposed exile into old friendships is like sliding into a warm bath. Anyone who has resumed normal human relationships after being in an abusive relationship will understand this without further explanation.
Old friends are like Horcruxes and if you're lucky, you meet up with them and get that first hug and you do indeed get back that missing chunk of yourself. How wonderful to talk to someone who knew me as a girl, and how wonderful to bring my daughter along and her the comment, "Oh, my, she's lovely, just like you!"
So back to Beijing, but I think this is the last year. During this trip, something just clicked: I want normalcy, I want to go back to having my classroom, and my students, and trips to the library. I spent a month's salary at Borders and even with my discount didn't get half of what I wanted. It's time to stop saving the posts from Powell's and going out and reading what I want, eating what I want, talking to people without using a dictionary or translator, and saying what I think without fear that someone from the Wai Ban will overhear and get all pissy about it. If a bowl of Count Chocula heads my way, that's just the grace note on the final chord.
cereal before I hop on that plane. It does not have to be served Jennifer Lancaster style--with a healthy spalsh of half and half-- I am content to take it with the icky one percent in my parents' fridge. But so far, the closest I have come is yucky ol' Boo Berry, and that just isn't right for me.Sigh. You'd think I'd be more worried and upset about returning to the Big C without my child, and in truth, I am, but how many times can you wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, freaking out that your baby girl is leaving you to go off to the big big city when she still can't pick her socks up off the floor by herself? (The record for me is eight.) Count Chocula is my harmless vent. If I obsess over this, rather than the fact Lulu lost her ATM card and I will have to clean up the back bedroom to find it, then I feel as if life has been rather more kind to me than it actually has.
Yesterday I saw or spoke to or dined with three old friends: one for lunch, one for dinner, one for a long phone conversation. This is more contact with the past then I have had since I finished high school back in the early, early 80's. Part of me is still dazed, part of me got back little chunks of my soul, things I thought were gone. It's hard to explain: I've been AWAY for so long leading this completely different life, so many years of it without neighbors, people who spoke English, or friends or family who gave a damn about me, that to return from this self-imposed exile into old friendships is like sliding into a warm bath. Anyone who has resumed normal human relationships after being in an abusive relationship will understand this without further explanation.
Old friends are like Horcruxes and if you're lucky, you meet up with them and get that first hug and you do indeed get back that missing chunk of yourself. How wonderful to talk to someone who knew me as a girl, and how wonderful to bring my daughter along and her the comment, "Oh, my, she's lovely, just like you!"
So back to Beijing, but I think this is the last year. During this trip, something just clicked: I want normalcy, I want to go back to having my classroom, and my students, and trips to the library. I spent a month's salary at Borders and even with my discount didn't get half of what I wanted. It's time to stop saving the posts from Powell's and going out and reading what I want, eating what I want, talking to people without using a dictionary or translator, and saying what I think without fear that someone from the Wai Ban will overhear and get all pissy about it. If a bowl of Count Chocula heads my way, that's just the grace note on the final chord.
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