On the way to the airport this morning, Boyfriend asked if I'd brought the mini Lonely Planet travel guide he'd bought me the last time I went to Paris. I said no and stared at him blankly. And then it dawned on me: I have no effing clue what I'm doing.
I haven't looked at a map. I haven't opened a book. I haven't Googled a damn thing. I spent more time thinking about what I'll be WEARING in Paris than what I'm actually DOING in Paris.
This? Makes me hyperventilate.
(It also makes me stylish.)
The last time I went to Paris, I made a Google map and dotted it with more than 20 stupid placeholders of places to go and things to see. I had a folder FULL of bookmarked web sites and reference pages. I had a book about writing in Paris. Not just BEING in Paris, WRITING there. I can't remember a thing about it...was it a how-to manual? I have no idea.
This time, I have an address where I pick up my keys. That's it.
Total. Barking. Uncertainty.
"This is good for you," Drea said when I called her in a panic from gate A15. "You usually plan EVERYTHING and then your expectations make you all weird."
She's right.
But, I'd credit most of the comedy in my book to off-the-charts expectations meeting the pimp-slap-in-the-face of reality.
Maybe this time the funny bits will be due to a shocking lack of planning meeting the big pimp-slap. Here's hoping...
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