Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Tomorrow, Sandy and I are going to San Francisco. It will be his first time there; it will be my fourth.

Why, you are saying, WHY am I going somewhere I’ve already been so many times? To ask such a question means, you’ve never been to San Francisco.

The final choice came down to Frisco and London; I’ve been there three times already, too. Well, only once substantially; the first two times were a couple of days apiece, and the third was for a few hours between flights. Sandy has been to neither, and asked me to make the choice.

A toughie. On one hand is easily the most colourful city in America; on the other is the most diverse city in Europe. How to choose?

Budget, that’s how. Our wallets won out, as did the shorter flight, and soon we will be seeing sunny California.

Apart from the Airport Neurosis that I can feel settling in, I’m bouncing up and down with the sensation of it all. Not only that, but I feel extremely blessed to be making a trip for the second time this year. Every journey is miraculous, because no two journeys are ever alike. If nothing else, it is always a great adventure unfolding before you.

What about Sandy? “I’m absolutely giddy about this trip,” he said to me, making sure to use “giddy” because we’re both such vocabulary freaks. Note to Self: pack Travel Scrabble.

Life is a funny thing. Years ago, I had to lie to go to the prom with Sandy. Now, under full parental awareness, we’re changing time zones. You know you’re grown up, when.

But enough said, because there is packing to do, errands to run, and hyperventilation to be had. I’m getting on a plane, remember? It just wouldn’t be fun without a little paranoia from yours truly.

Once again, my darlings, for the second time this year my gloved hand bids you adieu. He and I will be sure to wear some flowers in our hair. After all, we are untervegs.