There are only two weeks to the day left before I have to leave and just uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh.
To start us off, the thing I didn’t want to happen happened, meaning that my car is officially dead and I am sad and devastated and angry and exhausted and wimpering about the whole situation. It is currently sitting at a friend’s place down in the cities because, despite my terrible luck, it seems it is mixed with the best of luck in this bad luck situation.
If that doesn’t make sense, let me enlighten you:
- I drove all the way to the cities and it started acting up where I couldn’t get over the speed limit of 30mph. However, it was right before the time where I couldn’t go over that speed since there are stoplights and traffic.
- I ultimately had my car kaput in the parking lot at Ragstock while looking for a Hawaiian shirt to wear to the Weird Al concert, which didn’t have the gaudy rainbows awkwardly strewn about on a shirt like their website had promised so I got a less hilarious one instead. My friend Tamu, however, had been with me, so she got my mind going in one direction rather than the twenty it was trying to go all at once with the new information — and then I realized I was five minutes from my friend’s house. I was able to drive 15mph to get Bloo there so she would be safe and not towed.
- I now had no ride to the concert, no ride back from the concert, and no ride home. Except that I have fantastic friends. Tamu drove me forty minutes to the venue. Shelley, the lady that went to the concert with me, was lovely enough to drive me to my friend’s house that I was crashing at, in which we were able to have a conversation I wouldn’t give up for anything. And Traci, the friend that owns the house I was crashing at, gave me a ride back to my car the next day. My dad was waiting for me to see if dropping the pan to the transmission and draining the fluid would help.
- The draining of the fluid in the transmission did not help. Bloo refused to go past 30mph, and also refused to shift into reverse gear. My father drove me home, and I gave him a cupcake I’d bought at a bakery before my brunch. I reflected on how glad I was that I hadn’t actually sold Bloo because this would have happened to the owner — and then where would I have been?
- I am unsure what I will be doing with my Jeep at this point, or if I can even get any money for her at all at this point. This means I will not be making it to New Zealand as I’d planned, which is difficult to swallow, but easier to let go as I focus on me traveling through the UK for six months instead. I’m not fucked. I still get the cake. And, also, my father applied for a job in New Zealand while I was in the cities for three days, so….?????????????????????????
Like all of life, the good is intertwined with the bad. I have a difficult time with that notion. Frequently. It isn’t that I want it to go all as planned. I understand that plans change like ripples in water. I just have a difficult time accepting a truth I don’t believe is fair. My truth was that my Blooregard was a stone that would never fail, that someone else who loved her like me would take her into their heart, and that I would use the love I had in my heart for Bloo to get back to New Zealand, an even trade for my emotions.
But the truth of it was… I probably wasn’t keeping a good enough eye on my transmission fluid in the first place. I definitely wasn’t getting my oil changed enough, and forgot once or twice to check the oil. And I should have washed Bloo more than twice in the winter to rinse it of the salt Minnesota has on the roads to prevent that rust as long as possible.
Tamu told me to remember the mantra I had ever since I’d found out that my fuel pump had gone out (which I had replaced a week and a half ago…sigh): Just get me home, and all will be just fine.
And Bloo did. She got me home. She served me for over 12 years faithfully, always getting me where I needed to go in dire situations. She got me to the next gas station on road trips when she was clearly on the last drop of juice and I’d missed an exit a few miles back. She worked with me during the few times we spun out in winter from black ice. I have moved with her to at least ten different homes. And the one last request I had of her, to get me through to me leaving the states, was fulfilled.
Beyond the end of an era between me and an inanimate object, my weekend was filled with many happy goodbyes. I was able to see far beyond the amount of people I thought I would, giving last hugs and words of love to those I will be leaving behind. I had already been feeling the disconnection from everyone as I slowly take off my social media notifications, as people message me less and less due to the lack of face-to-face communication, as I take the steps toward my journey.
Which is only two weeks away.
And none of this still feels real. I quit my job mid-June, but I feel as if I’m still on a vacation, that I will eventually be spending eight to ten hours sitting in a chair to make sure I have calendars updated. Writing and traveling still seem like a faraway dream, one that I don’t suspect will begin to feel real until I’m walking a path thousands upon thousands have done before me in Spain, until I’m on a ferry from Scotland to Ireland, until I’m realizing that I have to leave in order to catch my plane mid-January next year.
It’s an odd notion to be thinking that far ahead. Here I am, plan in hand, right after experiencing the proof that there is no planning my life beyond making the best of it.
The best of it thus far is having so much support and love that overpowers the muck trying to make its way in. It will be different being on the road by myself, and it will be the hardest to remember to reach out and keep those connections, but I feel as if, for once, I am placing the trust in myself to make my life happen.
It’s one of the scariest fucking thing of my entire life. But it feels oddly similar to when I first jumped out of a plane. And that means I’m going to be just fine.