Wednesday, July 20, 2005

A Galaxy Far, Far Away

When we first started dating, back in the Mesozoic era, Kriston asked me a question which I've since come to understand is a litmus-test question, and which I failed miserably.

The question was this: "If some aliens came and offered to take you away with them and show you their galaxy and you could see the wonders of this universe that no human has ever seen, but you have to leave all your friends and family behind and never return to Earth, would you do it? For our purposes, we assume the aliens are benign."

I said, "Nah."

"But wait!" he pressed. "Are you seriously going to sit there and tell me you could pass up seeing a dual-star system?!?"

"Mm-hmm," I assented easily, unaware that this, as with most subsequent bizarre conversations in our relationship, had something to do with a deep-seated Star Wars fetish.

I'm not sure if I ever recovered, in his eyes, my position back on the pedestal after belly-flopping off it with my response to that question. When we revisited this conversation last night, he said that my response means I lack the gusto for adventure and discovery. I said, well, I'm moving to Tbilisi next month.

And here's something odd about that: I'm not the least bit anxious. I've got 17 more work days until I leave my job. Most of my worldly possessions are crammed floor-to-ceiling in a climate controlled U-Haul storage space. I should be waking up with night terrors about credit cards I anticipate forgetting to cancel and addresses I will forget to forward. I should be shivering in cold sweats because I have no place to live once I arrive and I don't speak the language and despite repeated attempts at chicken-scratching my name, I can't even read their incomprehensible alphabet.

But I'm cool as a cucumber, boys and girls.

I'm not sharing this out of bravado or out of some misguided conviction that I could blow the Scientologists' Stress Tests so out of the water that they'd make me a new deity in their pantheon. I'm sharing this because I think something's wrong with me. That's right, my only real concern with my impending overseas move is that I'm not worried enough.

Maybe it's a matter of time, and in two weeks you will witness my mental disintegration in real time and my blog will be overrun with psychotic grafitti. Or maybe I'll be cool up until my arrival, and there I will stand on the tarmac at the airport at 2am thinking, "Oh shit. Did I turn off the stove?" And maybe modern technology is smoothing the culture shock of the move, as I bring all my photos and music helpfully stored on my computer, my Sex and the City and Kieslowski DVDs lovingly packed within, and an industrial-size can of Raid standing in for a distant bug-thwomping boyfriend.

Whatever. The dual-star system will have to wait. I've got Qazbegi to conquer.


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