The boyfriend box.

I've started packing for my European Experience. I still have a week until my departure but I'm one of those neurotic people who needs everything to be 'just so' and this requires me to began the process a week in advance. I typically tend to be a minimalist traveler, packing the fewest amount of items I can; usually I run into the problem of not having enough clothes, underwear, clean socks. Perhaps this time it won't be an issue since I'll be wearing a crew uniform for a majority of the time. Glamorous, really. (In that cheesy "I had to buy white tennis shoes" way. Honestly, I had to buy white tennis shoes-- and I think white tennis shoes are hideous! It's tragic but on the bright side, I haven't been forced to buy Crocs, that might potentially be a bigger relief.)

But here I am, packing. I have little else to consume my already mundane days. This morning I was shuffling through paperwork when I happened upon a boyfriend box. A "Jungle Berries energy bar" box, to be exact. AVH sent me this box before he left to sail across the Atlantic. Those 5 evil weeks of technological deprivation. Looking back I have a difficult time understanding how I coped with not being able to contact him. (His current Atlantic crossing is only taking 12 days and he has email access, like whoa.)

Back to the boyfriend box. I've been in the dating market for the past 8 years of my existence. It has been a long 8 years. I only have 3 boyfriend boxes (bless, I've had many more boyfriends than that). Well, 2 boyfriend boxes and one boyfriend envelope-- Band boy, Food Snob, and AVH. A boyfriend box is the lazy version of a scrapbook. They're emotionally convenient though, they take less time and effort to make and can be easily thrown away, or burned, as the situation demands. But perhaps more importantly, they're an easy way to store memories and trinkets.

AVH sent me this box back in 2006 and since then it has collected letters, dried flowers, wrappers, boarding passes, photos, and pretzels. I saved the mini bag of pretzels. I was immediately distracted from my packing and organizing when I started reading through the letters he has written me. His first letter, "I think this is the 3rd non-business related letter I've ever sent in my life. And that includes postcards. Quite terrible, don't you think?" that was back in October of 2006. In November of 2007 he sent me a blank check to help figure things out with Rowan; I never cashed it. In April 2008 he sent me a plane ticket to Italy, and now I'm packing my bags. He once wrote me, "even though I believe many good relationships can be cultivated through hard work, I do think what we have is more than just from a formula of success but rather something greater, something serendipitous." Amen.

That's what's great about this box-- it's easy to see how our relationship has evolved and how we've both grown during the past few years. And, just maybe, this will be the last boyfriend box I ever have.

The Rowan Saga.

Owning a horse is like having a small child. They're similar in that communication is limited to a series of guesses based on visual cues. And so the R saga continues. He isn't in serious pain, he's not on any type of painkillers, but he's certainly not comfortable. He doesn't get worse when I ride him and it doesn't prevent him from running around outside, but he limps around and won't stand on his left front foot. I certainly can't afford to have another vet visit but I certainly can't keep guessing at what's bugging him, and hoping that it will miraculously heal. It's a pity, it really is-- he's too good of a horse to have these leg issues.

But in real life, I've been having a difficult time motivating myself to study French. It was silly to think that I wouldn't have to use French again after those required semesters-- yet here I am, preparing to make feeble attempts at speaking coherent (grammatically correct?) French in France.

AVH left today. Part of me does wish that I had done the crossing with him, it would be fabulous to say that I sailed across the Atlantic. But as time goes, 11 days and I'll be joining him.

The yard.

Returning to Florida merely solidified the fact that I am about to face another transition, move to a new temporary home, and literally experience uncharted waters of my own.

When people ask me where I'm "going next" they always seem to have a story that applies to the industry, but for me it's not about the industry, it's not even the fact that I'm getting a free ride to Europe, it's that at this point in time I can't imagine my life without AVH. It's been nearly two years, two years of waiting until the next visit, waiting for the next email, the next call. I don't mind waiting, but I do mind not knowing.

But in 'knowing' you tend to learn just how much you don't know, it's that knowledge that terrifies me. It's a slow ever-moving process and I wonder if the cumulation of months will provide a few answers to the equation.

Five days in the yard provided a nice reality check. Navy shorts, white v-neck tee (don't they know I hate v-neck tees?), chin resting on the palm of my hand-- the typical day? Watching the world go by. The yard is a nasty place filled with discarded rusty razor blades, plastic, paint, machines, men. The smell of chemicals and metal. Healthy.

This lack of water left me in hesitation. This industry, this vehicle, this boy-- will I be happy here? Will I find meaning in the routine? Will I lose the excitement so easily maintained with always coming and going? Will I be the person he wants, needs? Will I become angry because I've given up some things that consistently help me maintain my own happiness? These were some of my in-flight thoughts, ponderings 32,000 miles over the east coast.

There can be a countdown now, 2 weeks until I leave the country. 2 weeks. 2 weeks until I leave Rowan behind. I have 2 weeks to figure out how to be OK with doing this.