[since i will be on a plane during the superbowl this year while Team is 4th Quarter Winning, i am choosing show my support for Team by waiting till the final hours before i leave for india to blog and pack. for the win. #pullingaseahawks #fareastmode]
'oh my god how exciting!' you may find yourself saying upon learning of my impending world travel. yes. . . i'm going to india. . . exciting. . . but. . . .ok, Real Talk? i'm terrified. of what? of The Dirty. and the detritusy beachy part of india that my travel guru is sending instsphotos of, appears to be not short on it.
'well, that's poverty' my roommate, wise in their non gender specific pronoun ways said. well, yes. but it's not the poverty i fear (tho i will be the first to embrace, in spite of my independent wealth status, my run of the mill scarcity thoughts about money), it's The Dirty. specifically, the thought of getting The Dirty on me.
now, hear me out in my hygienic complexities. i write this wearing the same outfit i've been wearing for the past oh i dunno 5 or 6 days (socks and unders did undergo a change of guard, thank you very much). so making The Dirty apparently is not the issue. it's being plopped down into The Dirty that ice baths my gut. and this is not just a foreign country induced idiosyncrasy, mind you.
rewind 30ish years to: Little ilvs in a frilly blue dress bawling her eyes out, screaming 'SUCIO!! SUCIO!!' at Mother who had just, after placing Sister in the sand box to play, placed her in the sand box next to Sister to play with Sister. SUCIO, for those who did not have espanol as their first language but then grew up speaking so much english that their comprehension and speaking skills of the mother tongue have digressed to sand box level, means DIRTY. i, dapper-ish still in my ruffles and patent leather shoes, was brought to tantruamatic tears over The Dirty, perceived and otherwise, that i found myself sitting in.
fast forward those 30ish years minus 1ish week to dance class where, after cutting the rugs modernly, we were asked to pair up with a fellow dancer in the room. having been in this class before, it was safe to presume that this partnering up would lead to touching of said partner. i glanced quickly to the closest person to me and my internals froze when it became apparent that i was to be better halfed with My Friend. which, in and of itself, is not a problem, he is a gentleman and a scholar. except he also holds the title of SWEATIEST MAN EVER TO WEAR A LOW CUT TANK TOP.
sweaty man = The Dirty.
The Dirty + ilvs' bare hands = ilvs on the verge of tears.
as it turned out, our partnering time together started with just standing and staring into each other's eyes. so. i stood there. and stared at him. and he stared back. and tears rolled down my face for the entirety of our face off. the beauty of the moment (and his kindness as witness) was not lost on me. despite the overlying strata of discomfort that was demanding my full attention.
'you also don't have to go.' again with the wise words from the roommie! or should i say 'rumi'. true. . .pause. . . but i want to. and i'm excited for new life experiences and amazing adventures and challenging challenges. . . that, and i'm getting picked up to go to the airport in like 5 hours. also, it should be noted that after my cry session in class, i felt a lot better. i washed my hands immediately after, but i totally felt totally better. so, it only follows that after befriending The Dirty from far away lands, this Dandy is going to be OK. after a long sesh of standing on a sunny warm sandy beach, peppered with cows and debris, weeping at the unkempt beauty of it all, of course.
ok, i should really go pack. see you in a few weeks!
namaste,
ilvs