Travel Anxiety
<<2003-01-19 - 7:08 p.m.>>

My crazy roommate was there when I walked in the door, dashing my secret hopes that she had departed for parts unknown, never to return. Roshni and I are waging a secret war. Currently sitting in my room are two bags of trash and a cereal box which I had left with the tremendous pile of trash in her room as I, a tremendous whirlwind of leaving-ness, crashed around trying to get ready to leave here a month ago. Note that I locked my individual room door when I left; thus, instead of merely adding the two small bags and the cereal box to the copious amount of trash that she already had to dispose of, she took the time and expended the effort to call a Campus Security Officer to open my door so she could put them in my room. Note also the presence of a tray with several dishes on it, which was not in my room to begin with, as I never bring trays back to my room. It's like an arms race, except without any of the weapons of mass destruction. Now I know it was not ideal of me to just leave her with these two bags and a cereal box without asking, but still. It seems like my response to that would be to dispose of the trash, then take it up with my roommate upon her return.

Thankfully, the bags were tied tightly and thus my room does not stink. Small mercies.

My entire day was like one big panic attack, but now I'm starting to settle down. Despite my lack of sleep and my slight tiff with my mother this morning regarding the state of my room as I left it, despite my strange flight arrangement and the debacle with the thinking-I-was-booked-on-the-wrong-airline, I have made it back to my small, still-slightly-cluttered room alive, and in one piece, and with all of my possessions. I had enough money to pay for my cab back to campus. My bags were not lost, or broken, or stolen from off of the baggage carousel, nor did they fall through a mysterious hole in the trunk of my cab, nor did I leave them in the trunk of the cab when I got out.

Travel makes me anxious; travel between two emotionally charged places more so.

Throughout the flight, a woman behind me hissed furious orders to her adorable, plump, and energetic small daughter. The severe-faced woman sitting next to me on the Dallas-Portland leg of the flight would wait until I had several things on my tray table and one or two more in my hands and then decide that she wanted to go to the bathroom. To brush her teeth. And the brisk stewardesses (or whatever I'm supposed to call them) kept chirping "Watch your shoulders and elbows!" in a manner that I rapidly convinced myself was pointed as they wheeled those carts up and down the aisle.

My heart was beating fast, and I was sleeping intermittently and I was convincing myself that when I see Kara, she's going to be mad at me for not doing as much on our Paideia class (which is tomorrow morning—oh dear) as I should have, not being as accessible as I should have—et cetera.

But now I am here. Whatever "here" is, other than, in the very literal sense, my dorm room, Reed College, Portland, Oregon, the United States, North America, Earth, et cetera.

Can I relax now? Please?

I am extremely tired, but need to do "Buffy" Paideia-class work for tomorrow morning, and want to see Kara and Miriam. As long as they're not mad at me.

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