I need my head read. I have a seven
week holiday on the horizon which will see me catching up with one
of my favourite people in London, partying in Amsterdam, drinking
wine in France, Greek Island hopping...you get the drift. Yes, this
homebody is finally jumping on the OE band wagon, unfortunately she
is freaking and I don't mean freaking excited WOOH! I mean freaking
OUT man!
Can't believe I actually just admitted
that. Reading this, I would kinda hate me right now if I
wasn't...well, me.
Only got myself to blame really. If I
was early twenties or late teens like most OE participants I would be
footloose and fancy free. Not teetering dangerously close to the late
twenties perimeter and full of rational thoughts. Damn you rational
thoughts.
Who knew that the prospect of living
out of a bag that weighs less than one of my thighs for seven weeks
would play on my mind so heavily? I am a notorious over packer so
knowing I have to limit beauty products, shoes, clothing, underwear-
particularly underwear- is most unsettling. I like being prepared.
The whole packing issue has also forced me into buying sensible shoes
which lets face it, is heart breaking for any female. Takes the joy
out of shopping this being practical business.
That's just the beginning though.
There's a whole bunch of crazy little voices hanging around in this
worry wart's head. The first is Mr Cynical; “What if something goes
wrong?” is pretty much the extent of his repertoire. He came about
after the countless people who (bless them) are just looking out for
me by warning me of the health risks associated with long haul
flights, lurking pick pockets, bed bug infested hostels, dodgy meat
kebabs...the list goes on.
Then there's Mr Gym. I was exaggerating
for effect when I alluded to the size of my thighs earlier but by the
time I've had my way with Italy and her countless pizza and gelato
joints, this might become a reality.
Mustn't forget Mr Career either.
Somehow I've convinced my boss to give me seven weeks off which
sounds great in theory but what happens if the person covering me is
more efficient or worse, spends less time on Facebook...
Lastly there's Mr Right. This guy
doesn't actually live in my head. He's real and I happen to be in a
relationship with him. I think the saying is partly true that women
choose partners that remind them of their Fathers. Tom is perhaps in
no other way like my Dad aside from the fact that they are both
adamant when they are right. The annoying bit is that more often than
not, they actually are right.
This does have its benefits though.
Over the past couple of years I've been able to shut off the part of
my brain that makes well researched logical decisions and replace it
with five simple words; “What do you reckon Tom?” Unfortunately I
have to leave my beloved sense of reason at home. I'm going with a
girlfriend and she too has a partner who is very organised- so much
so that he has been known to make spreadsheets for when they go
camping. It's awesome.
So far our male-free planning has
consisted of booking the wrong dates for our hostel in Amsterdam and
establishing the fact that we need to get from said hostel to Greece
in five weeks whilst gaining cultural enlightenment along the
way...somehow.
Looking back over that wee summary of
my trip thus far all I can think is- never has the saying two left
feet been more apt and strangely enough (despite all the worrying)
never have I felt so free.
