panic! on the streets of london
My plane is leaving in approximately four hours, and instead of finishing off my packing, I thought to myself: “You know what you need to do? Not panic. And packing and panicking, they are eerily similar words.” So instead of packing, I am taking it easy. Chillin’. Updatin’ the old LJ.
All right, who am I kidding? I’m so panicking!
It’s not that I don’t want to go to university (I do!) and meet new people (I love me some people!), it’s just that I am going to be all alone and friendless in a big, strange city with only my trusty umbrella Horace Walpole for company. In other words, and despite Horace’s best efforts, I am going to die.
How am I handling the fact of my imminent death, you wonder? I wish I could say that I do so with grace and great dignity, but of course you would know it for a lie. There has been very little grace involved, and dignity? Call me some time, I’d love to hear from you. No, I am like a walking, talking distress call, and instead of dealing with my worry I… cut my hair. For the first time in my life.
ME: What if it looks hideous when it’s done? What if I can’t live with my image in the mirror? Will I have to get fake hair?
FRIEND: It’ll be fine.
ME: It’s great how we both realise that I am totally projecting my anxiety about the move onto this haircut.
FRIEND: Totally.
Luckily, my hair turned out fine. In fact, I was so pleased I exclaimed: “I’m gorgeous! I knew I’d look great, but this is even better than I’d imagined!” to the bewildered hairdresser. And in a way, it helped - when I could no longer distract myself with my hair, I had to face up to my fears. Loudly. In front of people.
ME: … and then I’m going to get eaten by cockroaches and then my roommate is going to toss my corpse out onto the street where it will lie perfectly preserved in the London chill, and the passer-bys will see it and say to each other: “Look, there is that annoying woman from the day before! She has been nibbled to death by cockroaches, such a relief.”
FRIEND: Did you not hear the part where I said everything would be fine?
ME: How is it fine? I’m food for cockroaches!
Yesterday, I had a hasty farewell gathering with a couple of friends; it quickly turned into a depressing episode of Dr Phil:
ME (sings): When I first came to London, I was only sixteen…
FRIEND: It’s going to be great, I feel it, I know it.
ME (sings): In the dark of an alley, you’d work for a fiver, for a swift one off the wri…
FRIEND: You’ll get to know some great people!
ME (sings): I know that I am dying and I wish I could beg…
Friend (sings): For some money to take me from the old main draaag… Um, I mean, you’ll have a jolly old time?
Well, I won’t be completely alone: one of my darlings is already down there, and two more are coming in a month. All I have to do is to stay alive for a week or so, which I should be able to manage. Hopefully. But if I should die, think only this of me; that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever chasing her umbrella down the street!
All right, who am I kidding? I’m so panicking!
It’s not that I don’t want to go to university (I do!) and meet new people (I love me some people!), it’s just that I am going to be all alone and friendless in a big, strange city with only my trusty umbrella Horace Walpole for company. In other words, and despite Horace’s best efforts, I am going to die.
How am I handling the fact of my imminent death, you wonder? I wish I could say that I do so with grace and great dignity, but of course you would know it for a lie. There has been very little grace involved, and dignity? Call me some time, I’d love to hear from you. No, I am like a walking, talking distress call, and instead of dealing with my worry I… cut my hair. For the first time in my life.
ME: What if it looks hideous when it’s done? What if I can’t live with my image in the mirror? Will I have to get fake hair?
FRIEND: It’ll be fine.
ME: It’s great how we both realise that I am totally projecting my anxiety about the move onto this haircut.
FRIEND: Totally.
Luckily, my hair turned out fine. In fact, I was so pleased I exclaimed: “I’m gorgeous! I knew I’d look great, but this is even better than I’d imagined!” to the bewildered hairdresser. And in a way, it helped - when I could no longer distract myself with my hair, I had to face up to my fears. Loudly. In front of people.
ME: … and then I’m going to get eaten by cockroaches and then my roommate is going to toss my corpse out onto the street where it will lie perfectly preserved in the London chill, and the passer-bys will see it and say to each other: “Look, there is that annoying woman from the day before! She has been nibbled to death by cockroaches, such a relief.”
FRIEND: Did you not hear the part where I said everything would be fine?
ME: How is it fine? I’m food for cockroaches!
Yesterday, I had a hasty farewell gathering with a couple of friends; it quickly turned into a depressing episode of Dr Phil:
ME (sings): When I first came to London, I was only sixteen…
FRIEND: It’s going to be great, I feel it, I know it.
ME (sings): In the dark of an alley, you’d work for a fiver, for a swift one off the wri…
FRIEND: You’ll get to know some great people!
ME (sings): I know that I am dying and I wish I could beg…
Friend (sings): For some money to take me from the old main draaag… Um, I mean, you’ll have a jolly old time?
Well, I won’t be completely alone: one of my darlings is already down there, and two more are coming in a month. All I have to do is to stay alive for a week or so, which I should be able to manage. Hopefully. But if I should die, think only this of me; that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever chasing her umbrella down the street!