Wild Child

I'm fairly certain that if anyone knew half the things that went through my head, they'd think I was crazy.

In my mind, I'm kind of wild.

I've always wanted to go to the airport and buy a ticket for wherever the next plane is flying.

(Yup. Just like in Yes, Man.)

(And I, too, could have a blast in Lincoln, Nebraska.)

I am DYING to be part of one of those flash mobs that "spontaneously" breaks out into song and dance in the middle of a crowded train station.

While I want to see London and Sydney and Florence, the vacations I usually dream of are to places like Kathmandu, Marrakesh, and Antarctica.

I want to learn to ride a motorcycle and to try my hand at dog sledding and to get SCUBA certified so I can go shipwreck diving.

The girl that lives in brain is crazy. Spontaneous.

Awesome.

I really want to be her.

The problem, though, is that I grew up with this ingrained sense of...caution? Decorum? Need to keep my bones unbroken?

I'm not quite sure what it is, but there is something in my head that keeps me from doing the things I really want to do.

I mean, besides the fact that I barely make enough money to keep the ends meeting and all of my friends are either married or otherwise occupied with their own lives.

Plus, I seem to have this sense of adventure that most people don't share.

At least, that's how I interpret the raised eyebrows I occasionally receive or the "You want to do what??" I sometimes hear.

And then there's the time my mother pretended to go deaf when I uttered the word "motorcycle."

I want to be the girl who packs a backpack and takes off for a year, taking odd jobs as I work my way around the world.

I'll never do it.

For a lot of reasons.

For one, I'd miss my family a lot.

But I really want to.

Instead, I've built up this life for myself. Full of responsibility and order and structure.

And so, today I'm back at my desk job inside the windowless third floor of a decaying library building.

But my heart is somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.