I left Michigan this morning.
I don’t really think of my trips between Texas and Michigan as flying anymore. I think of them as time travel.
When you time travel, people gawk at your funny clothes and what life is like in the strange, unimaginable world you live in.
Last week, I left my present and traveled to December 2009, a time when I had two little dogs, when I saw my breath when I left the house, when I had breakfast with my family every morning.
A time when I baked cookies, because that’s what you do when it’s December and it’s 30 degrees outside — although when I time traveled this time, the cookies were influenced by my present.
A time when I could ask my mom to make a case for my new Kindle and she wouldn’t have to text me pics of the potential fabric or go to the post office and ship it. I could have it that night.
This week, I’ve been torn between being excited to see Eric and spend New Year’s Eve with him in Houston…and wanting to stay with my family another week, because they haven’t started to get on my nerves yet.
(I KNOW — I’m confused too.)
This morning I had to leave the house at 9:45, and I didn’t start packing until 9:20. I put off doing it for that long.
Flying is usually a happy thing, but time travel is always sad, because no matter the circumstances, it always involves leaving someone behind, either in your past or your present. As exciting as it is, when you arrive either in either time, you’ll know something has always changed, that it’s not exactly like you want it.
My favorite time traveler, Henry DeTamble, says in The Time Traveler’s Wife,
“I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow.”
It’s not that I wanted to stay, exactly, but time traveling is just such a depressing reminder that I will never have everyone I love in one place. And not even close — more like two planes, a car ride, seven hours, and hundreds of dollars.
I mean, it’s not much easier than climbing in the Flying Delorean when you look at it that way.
I’m about to board for Houston, torn between ecstatic and miserable.
I need to make more money so I can afford to do this more often…or really, bring people to me more often.
Seriously — weeping in airports is so unbecoming.