Pardon me, but do you people realize I leave for Paris Part Deux in seven sleeps?! Are you kidding me? I've been so blender-drinked by this depression project that I haven't had one second to let this fact sink in. Which is probably a good thing because Paris? Brings out the crazy.
The jungle drums have been beating loud in my head for the past two days. Basically, everything I look upon – my house, my car, my clothes, my lifestyle, my shoe options, my hair cut – is now foreign, questionable and altogether NOT GOOD ENOUGH. Poor Boyfriend...he's subject to my withering gaze, too.
Not Parisian enough. Not sexy enough. Not adventurous and romantic and Calgon-take-me-away enough.
And I'm thinking: 'You leave for Paris in seven days...all things adventurous are coming. So why don't you take a frickin' POWDER Jones and relax?'
Sorry. When the jungle drums kick in, logic and reason are OUT.
I emailed Shea, who is a new friend and therefore not sick to death of my constant overanalysis and questioning.
Here was her reply: "OF COURSE it makes you crazy. It's totally supposed to. If I were running off to Paris for a month, I would seriously be questioning everything in MY life, too. Dude. You'd have to be some kind of MACHINE to avoid this. We're talking Paris, dude. City of Light. City of Romance. The whole reason to go to Paris is to change your life."
Shea has this new business where she is your wing woman as you ride the swells of insanity that creative process or dream-living entails. I did not fully understand the depths of her talent until this morning. I predict ridiculous amounts of success for her.
And I already feel better knowing my insanity isn't the STRANGE kind of insanity, just NORMAL kind. Whew.
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