As I sit here in my room, comfortably ensconced beneath my laptop, separated from the door/rest of humanity by all my worldly possessions scattered across my floor, I find myself with some time to ponder, partially/primarily because it allows me to procrastinate from packing. Tomorrow night, I board the plane that will take me to my new life, far away in Australia. I will have no friends (Jamie doesn’t count because he’s my boyfriend and therefore has to hang out with me), no job and no idea how to navigate around or perform basic skills, though to be fair, I have only a vague idea how to do these things in America. The past three weeks have been a veritable whirlwind of change and it is far from over, a prospect that leaves me rather queasy. Suddenly, I am forced to confront all kinds of difficult questions, most notably: so what happens when you pick up and leave? When you move to another country, leaving behind friends and family, to start a new life? For some, I’m sure, it is an exhilarating leap into the great wide open, a delicious unfettered free-fall. These people would relish the opportunity to make a whole new set of friends, because they are the kinds of people who strike up casual conversations with strangers in line at Starbucks. They are not afraid of failure because they recently completed an Ironman in eight hours. They do not feel the cold clutches of anxiety because they have a resting heart rate of 40. These are most likely the types of people who enjoy mountain-biking and wear athletic clothes 24/7. I am not one of “them.” I sneer at these people. I glower at them in line for my tall iced unsweetened green tea, daring them to tell me what nice day it is so I can tell them about the dangers of sunburn. I mock their silly cycling outfits with their clicky shoes, I curse them from the drivers seat as they ride their ergonomic Swedish bicycles four abreast down a narrow road, leaving me sullenly inching along behind them wondering if “premeditated vehicular homicide” is a thing.
I wouldn’t say that I hate new things, only that I generally tend to prefer things I have previously experienced. In this way, Australia sort of fits the bill. I did spend six months there last year studying abroad. But I was in a totally different part of the country and relished the fact that when my time was up I could scurry back into the loving embrace of my American countrymen (but not in a slutty way). That was like Emigration Lite, where you sort of voyage into the unknown and sort of begin a new life but people help you out and you don’t have to pay any bills or really get a job and you can go home to your real life when it stops being fun, ie perfection. This is Emigration Plus (to continue my soft drink analysis) where not only do I move permanently to a new place but I have a goofy accent and am less fit than everyone with no marketable skills and a fear of adventure sports, aka an Australian pariah. Study abroad was like one of those roller coasters that are vaguely nauseating but also totally exhilarating and last only a few minutes, leaving you giddy and flushed. Moving to Australia is like being strapped into a Tilt-a-Whirl by yourself (ok, Jamie is there too, but he was born on the Tilt-a-Whirl and so he enjoys it) whereupon the ride attendant promptly dies, leaving you stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl for the foreseeable future, or at least until you blackout from the g-forces.
Of course, likening the most exciting thing I have done in my entire life to being permanently nauseous and then passing out is slightly unfair. I have Jamie and his wonderful friends and family who will at least pretend to enjoy hanging out with me until I find friends of my own. And of course there is Jamie who I assume is already battening down the proverbial hatches in anticipation of the tornado of anxiety that will touch down in our new apartment in 36 hours. I am excited for this new venture, more excited than I have ever been in my life, but I would be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t scared, too.
So is it possible to flourish outside your comfort zone when you are less Lucy Lawless and more Liz Lemon? I guess we’ll find out.
