Like Diamonds, Like Ten Thousand Jewels in the Sky

I'm leaving y'all next week. I'm going to the mountains to see what I can see. JR and Elias are going to drive me around and show me elk and reindeer and assorted other beautiful things. Some guy I don't know is taking me for a long walk on Monday and I'm going to rent a car for the first time in my life. It was a mere seven years ago that I took my first plane ride--a trip to Boston to see a kind boy who smoked and smelled dark and woodsy and drank too much and didn't quite know what to do with me. While he looked on in amusement, I called the Butcher from a pay phone outside Fenway Stadium because I knew no one else would understand what it meant for me to be there at that moment, to know for sure that Fenway Stadium was a real place. I'll be honest with you. I was embarrassed when Sarcastro brought up Pad Thai and I didn't know what it was. And along those lines, I'm already fretting about having to go to the counter at the rental place and doing this very ordinary thing that people do all the time that I've never done before--get a car. When I first got to grad school, when I first had my own apartment, I would sometimes worry that I was going to be found out. I was having such an awesome time, living on my own in the big city, making friends, hanging out in cafes and pubs, reading important books, and making myself acquainted with unseemly German philosophers. Like all grad students, we'd get drunk and stay up late trying to solve all the world's problems. It was amazing, and I was constantly afraid of being sent home. That someone finally would say "You don't belong here. You aren't one of us." and send me on my way. Eventually, it sunk in that no one was going to send me back to Illinois. I was free to make my way in the world. Still, sometimes, when I'm confronted by the fact there are a range of ordinary experiences that most people can draw on--they rented a car or they've been to a Thai restaurant before or whatever--and I'm all like "What do I do next? Where do I go? What do I sign? How do I work this?" I feel that same feeling--that anxiety that wells up and almost overwhelms me, followed shortly thereafter by a good deep laugh at my own self. I'm considering getting a t-shirt that says, "Sorry, I don't get out much."