I daily have the impulse to post status updates on Facebook like, “Life is grand when your endocrine system isn’t playing Charles Boyer to my Ingrid Bergman!  It is so nice running errands on my lunch hour!  I am so pleased to be functioning well!”  

I’m afraid to talk about this online – in this space, in any space.  Even though I had the equivalent of anemia, I worry.  

Then again, I’m headed to school to write about something much worse and less common.  I can see this as practice.  

I met friends tonight for coffee, and I was asked by another soon-to-be-ex-expat whether I feel sorry to be leaving Korea.  And I said, “Nope!  I’ll miss all of you, very much, but I can honestly say that I am so genuinely excited to be headed back home, so very pleased by my prospects, so wholly confident in my skills and interests, that I am not even a tiny bit sorry to be moving on from this place!  Not one bit!”

And this is all true.  I can’t remember the last time I felt this way; I’m not sure I ever felt this way.  

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel any trepidation.  I have had this sense of nebulous dismay over the whole prospect of adulthood – not even mature ambitions or achievements, but the quotidian stuff: paying utility bills through the mail, painting the exterior of one’s house, owning a house (that is, having in one’s possession a house), taking the cat to the veterinarian, watering plants.  None of these things seemed precisely impossible.  I knew perfectly well they could be done; I was all the time doing them.  But I had this idea that I would never actually manage them.  I couldn’t.  

Paying an electric bill – receiving the bill, opening the bill, reading the bill, writing a check in the amount of the bill, putting that check in an envelope, putting that envelope in the mail: all of this seemed mysteriously daunting.  Every month?  

I also used to call myself absentminded!  Terrible memory for names.  Horrible memory for dates and times.  Disorganized.  Poor sense of direction.  So uncoordinated.  

It turns out Charles Boyer wanted me locked up.   




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