I'm in the plane, approximately 20 minutes away from takeoff. I have an aisle seat, per my request, and I feel like the only person not adding to the indistinguishable chatter in the cabin.
Last minute prep work went more or less as expected. Around 6:00 p.m., I realized that whatever wasn't done wasn't going to get done--okay, someone just farted; that was disgusting--and I should just get ready.
I thought I'd feel differently once the day arrived, but I don't. There's a vague sense of leaving a former life behind, of beginning a new chapter in the never-ending story of me, but mostly I feel exactly the same.
I told my Dad goodbye on my Mom's cell phone. I told my Mom goodbye at the airport and was surprised to see her cry. As much as my parents antagonize me, I never try to hurt them; it bothers me that something which is so important to me makes them so sad.
While waiting in the airport lobby, I cross-stitched and started reading a history of patriarchy while trying not to feel like caricature of a spinster.
The flight attendants are passing out eye masks, earphones, and a dinner menu with several impossibly unpalatable options now. And I just remembered I forgot my camera.