One minute I’m peacefully dreaming of beaches with sand made of Funyuns, and the next I’m being violently shoved awake by the touching down of plane wheels on a salted Nebraskan runway. My neck does this thing where it lunges forward and I release a small snort, but as soon as I realize what I’ve done, it’s subconsciously erased from my memory.
As someone who flies frequently, you’d think I’d be accustomed to the familiar motions a plane takes, but alas, I’m still stunned when we hit the tiniest of turbulence and the alarming shifts that come with landing. Fear strikes, and all I can think about is LOST. 4 8 15 16 23 42. The back of the plane is safest, right? If I’m to survive on a deserted island, which one of these men would be worthy of becoming my suitor? The girl two rows up is going to be my most substantial competition. For some absurd reason this is what comes to mind while flying over Midwest USA.
The mundane ding sounds and everyone and their mother pounce at the overhead bins. I crank my headphone volume up and begin finger drumming a song on the nearest headrest to pass the time. Eventually it’s my turn to meander down the runway and I sluggishly slide my feet toward the exit. My ears flush embarrassingly red from the mere thought of cold weather.
Once my feet kiss the jet way, there’s no going back.
I’ve lost 3 years of my life.
Every time I set foot in the state of Nebraska, my life becomes the 17 Again movie. It’s this neat trick my mind does. I’m back in my parents’ house, in my high school bedroom, surrounded by things I’m rarely exposed to in my normal, day-to-day life.
My brain deceives me by wholeheartedly believing I have stepped into a time machine.
Being home for the holidays when you live halfway across the country is more than bizarre, it’s baffling, befuddling, and bewildering. The best way I can think to describe it is that it’s like the double life of Disney pop sensation Hannah Montana, and the average girl next door, Miley Ray Steward. Livin’ two lives is a, little weird? But it’s cool, because none of your friends know what you’re actually like when you’re living your second life. Mix it all together & well, it is indeed quite confusing.
So, in order to make sense of this issue, my brain reverts back to what it knows when it sees the familiarities of my hometown.
Moral of the story,
if . . . *when* you see me act like a fool while I’m back home for the holidays, I promise it’s not me, it’s me from 3 years ago.