I Believe I Can Fly

Did you ever suddenly find a huge, gaping hole in your self-image? You're looking at yourself in, say, your Sophisticated Lady garment, then you turn and find that, whoops! There is an exposure problem.

This happened to me recently. I tend to think of myself as pretty adventurous. I eat raw oysters even in months with no "r" (pretend it's Ju-Ry! Aurgurst!). I'm not afraid of a fight. I often overschedule because I don't want to miss anything. (This is the sort of self-image you get when you grow up with the phrase "Lady of the Eighties" in the zeitgeist.)

But I recently got my travel itinerary for the book tour, and I realized that I know very little about travel. I mean, I know enough not to wear a fanny pack (frankly, that's basic common sense), but I haven't been on a plane in years.

I called my mom, who is also not a traveller. "I wonder what items we're not allowed to bring on the plane," she said.

Lighters, we knew. Also, lotion.

"What about medication?" she said.

"I don't know what terrorists would do with medication," I said, although I also don't know what terrorists would do with lotion. "Nobody move! I'm going to REGULATE YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE!"

"We're going to alleviate everyone's HEADACHES!" Mom said.

"Kiss your SEASONAL ALLEGIES GOOD-BYE!"

I do have that feeling in my gut, though, that's halfway between excited and nervous. I'll see the Pacific Ocean for the first time. On the other hand, I'll have to figure out how to get from Albany, NY to the Berkshires. As the trips draw closer, I'm beginning to see, as Stevie Nicks put it, my Gypsy. She's the one with the nervous smile and the hand sanitizer.