All of her travel got me to thinking about my own limited travel in the past decade or so. I'd been invited to a couple of weddings in the past few years and declined attending because of my Rheumatoid Arthritis. Being on a cramped plane, dragging a suitcase through security - well it all seemed too daunting until I had my pain level under control. I'd driven to California with one daughter and Phoenix with the other about five years back. These trips were manageable because I could get out of the car to pop into a loo or stretch without being told by uniformed personnel I was endangering national security.
I have a passport but knew it's lifespan was approaching the expiration. I know a lot of things, but I don't know if one needs to renew a passport before that date; if one has to start over if that date passes, how much passports cost now, what is the 'card' my sister has and raves about. Details, details. I went into my little strong box, the one where I keep the few important papers that are not in my storage locker for little items. A/K/A my safe deposit box. There is was - my passport. Expiring on September Eleventh of 2018. This year. In about two months from the time I unearthed it. Good timing! I will go to the library, print any pertinent paperwork and send that puppy off to a governmental agency that will efficiently expedite my renewal. (that is sarcasm for the uninitiated)
I remember I was futzing around the house, chatting on the phone with my friend Andrea who lives in Oregon. I was putting old newspapers in the recycle bin, garbage in the can. I was straightening up my endless stacks of paper products - books - newspapers -correspondence - dirty tissues. I was determined to get off the phone, head to the gym, then to the library to return books and print off the forms. It was a good day. I was also on my way to my younger daughter's house to await the arrival of grandkid # 2. So to say I was a bit distracted is probably true, but I'll never admit my laser focus was fuzzy!
I'm turning sixty the next time the calendar turns. When that ball drops in Times Square, I'll begin my countdown to the next decade of my life. That's 52 days to enjoy my last moments of being in my fifties. 2018 was my own little version of the so-called Golden Birthday. When I turned 22 on the 22nd of February in the early 1980's I didn't even know such a celebration existed. I missed out on another Hallmark holiday, sigh. In 2018 I was 59 years old, and I was born in 1959. Ergo - my own rendition of the GB! My brother who is math savvy probably knows a factoid or two about the probability of this, the formula that is beyond my comprehension, and would steal the magic of the moment. So for me it is simple. 59/59!
But 60! Lordy,Lordy that sound kind of big. What should I do? I could go to Shambala in Red Feather Lakes for a three night intro to Buddhism seminar. I could go to Costa Rica on a Nia retreat. I could pretty much not plan anything specific and see what presents itself to me. No matter what, I knew one thing. I might need my passport. That little blue book that allows me to go abroad. The pint-size permission to travel to a port, get on a plane or boat. What a minute - that's not true. I am very allergic to boats. I get seasick every time I venture onto one. The idea of a river cruise through the Danube appeals to me except for the boat part. Just like how much I like the fellowship of church, and wish they would just stop mentioning Jesus.
I return from my errands, ready to pack for a three week or so stay, get this passport thing in the mail, eat lunch. I don't see the ageing navy visa on the counter where I left it. No problem, I'll check my little strong box. Not there either. I know - it's in my underwear drawer because nothing says adventure like a pair of granny panties. Nope. I look and I look. I look under a stack of books. I check the space between couch and cushions. I panic because I've taken out the trash and recycling and if you've seen that particular area of where I live you'd know I am not dumpster diving!
Breathe. It'll show up. Back in the early 80's I lost my wedding ring for about six months. Then one day I saw it on my dresser, glistening around the atomizer of a perfume bottle, which also happened to be gold. I know I can be spacey and I'm sure I know the difference between magazine inserts and my passport, so I am confident it is not in the trash, but where is it?
Let it go. I have places to go and a daughter to see. I'm now in the head space of "If my higher Power wants me to go on a trip it will appear." Breathe - it will show up. Somewhere. Sometime. I decide to put it out of my mind and head out to see my kiddo. Maybe a break from the full-on Law and Order-esque tossing of my apartment will be good.
After one week with my kid, we come back to my apartment to water plants and get a few things. Without telling her I am really on the hunt for my passport we have a quick go-through of my living quarters and leave. The whole time I am scanning, but no luck. Damn! Where is that thing.
The next few weeks are a whirlwind of birthing and babies and sleep deprivation and laundry and diapers. I don't have time to dwell on my foolishness. My passport lived for ten years in that box. Happy and ready to serve me if needed. I take it out one day to look at it and make some plans and it runs away. Surely if I'm meant to go on a journey it will appear.
Yesterday I had the necessary documents to submit a rebate to the drug company that makes my RA medicine. With insurance this one-per-month shot costs $570.00. Thanks to the manufacturer's co-pay assistance program I am refunded almost all of that money. While tearing up my room the day before yesterday I found the rebate form. As if on cue to drive me crazy, it too has disappeared. First look? Yes, my underwear drawer. Followed by a stack of mail, a look under some books on my dresser, under my computer. Nada!
I am now worried I am experiencing deep memory loss. Monday night I couldn't find the Hamsa earrings my daughter had just gifted me two days before. Surely if she can provide them safe passage from Israel I can be entrusted not to lose them in 1100 square feet. Those I did find; on my makeshift desk, under some random sheets of paper nonsense. But now I'll be out five hundred bucks plus the ability to backpack through Europe with a handsome Swede... oh wait a minute. That's never going to happen.
The last item I need to grab before the gym is a pair of socks. If I can't keep my mind healthy, I might as well give my body some loving. Plus it will provide a mental break from my onset of dementia. My mother used to call me Dizzy Lizzy. Perhaps I have been in denial my entire life about my logical self. Was I always a space cadet? Maybe, though I no longer run around like a headless chicken. I have learned that life has a way of taking care of itself - with or without my help.
Yes, you can guess the ending to this tale. I opened up my sock drawer and there it was. Not hidden under a pile of argyles, but peeking out from a few pairs of ankle length work out footwear. Yes, I grabbed that blue book and kissed it and then I threw it on the dresser and proclaimed "Fucking Passport!!"
I rejoiced. So much so that the teen at Walgreen's had to tell me to stop smirking while snapping my photo for my new passport. So much so that I spelled the name of my town incorrectly on the form and had to print off a new one at the biblioteque. Maybe I am getting a message about this, but I will not be stopped. The photo is stapled. The check is written. The form is complete. Without any thought of my mental abilities or other- worldly messages, I have every intention of dropping that little blue book in a big blue collection box today. And hope for the best.
Time to Write,
Jane
PS - where is that rebate form?
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