I’m going to the ‘Nati in a handful of hours, and won’t have Internet unless I sneak out to a library or coffee shop. I also, for the life of me, can’t find directions on how to do phone blogging, so that won’t happen, either, alas.
So most likely no website updates for a week and a half. *shudder*.
My parents, however, are coming to Cincinatti next Thursday. To do apartment shopping.
They’re moving to Cincinatti within about three weeks. My response? “Holy fuck.”
They’ve never liked Charlotte, so when this good job came along, the Old Man started thinking about how far away he is from his grandkids and the Old Lady kept talking about how far she is from me and Aunt Peaches, and the job offer was taken.
See, though, I’ve got about twenty or thirty damn good reasons to love Charlotte: Michael, Jenny, Dulin, Chris, my MIT-twin, Nathan, Mia, all their parents (except Chris’s), etc., etc.
And I won’t have a home nest there at Christmas, or a car with which to make a road trip (and road trips in winter are way beyond my level of expertise).
Now, it wouldn’t be overly difficult for me to rack up a little cash and get a plane ticket and hotel room, except that I don’t think I can rent cars (the minimum age is 25, methinks), and not a single person would get a Christmas gift.
I am… distressed… by the sudden proximity of my parents. It feels like they just jumped from this nice, half-country away distance to being right in my fucking lap. There are very few people I don’t mind or even want (*smirk*) being on my lap, and my parents aren’t elements of that set.
There are advantages to them being closer, of course, but most of those relate to my older sister and my neices/nephews and Aunt Peaches, rather than to me. That sounds really bitchy and ungrateful and selfish, and it may very well be all of those things, but it still feels very true. Last night she was already talking about weekend trips to Cincinatti for R & R when the eight-week stretch of Winter Quarter Hell sets in.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’m not sure it’d be more relaxing for me to stay in their apartment than to make sure I do something fun here.
But now I’ve got to get a new doctor, and what are the odds of having a second triathalon’ing doctor in a row?! Slim-to-fucking-none, that’s what. Now I’m going to get some cushy doctor who’s going to tell me my fascination with running is sick and no one should lose that much weight and you need to eat more and sit on your ass more and be less stressed and are you sure you aren’t sexually active?
Which was a question my mother asked on the phone last night. I just laughed. Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, in retrospect.
Seeing her on Thursday is going be all kinds of trying, I’m afraid, because there are a lot of things I’m thinking and feeling that I don’t want to run and tell Mommy, which is going to hurt.
Sometimes I almost wish I could lie convincingly, rather than simply hide or not-tell. And give me a little sugar (of the sort in soda, not kisses–although I may be susceptible to those as well) and I’ll prattle on (about nothing, if you don’t listen too closely, and about too much, if you know me too well) for as long as you want me to.
But I’m off to launder clothing and pack and eat food and get things ready overall. I have an assignment that was given out before the beginning of the quarter–bah. And a lack of Internet is going to require some preparation…