It’s Monday, you say? You say I’m leaving Saturday? You say I’m supposed to bring my entire life in Brazil to a close in just these next four business days?
I laugh in your face.
This is no easy task, my friends. Take today’s foray into the banking world where, I’m not even kidding, I watched the employee helping me try to staple six pieces of paper together for three minutes. His concentration on this task was palpable. I almost pointed and laughed out loud until I realized that was just not an acceptable reaction to the situation. So instead, I sat quietly and asked God to grant me the serenity to accept the things I could not change and for the self-restraint to keep from stapling the six papers myself to be done with it already.
This whole “patience” thing worked surprisingly well, too. It’s amazing what happens when you just chill out. I think I was channeling Dennis’s energy today because rather than freak out and slam things around and cry like I normally do, I sat calmly and helped my friend complete her grading sheets for her students’ report cards. And then I waited on the corner for the bus, walked home from the bus stop, and upon opening the door to my apartment, I began packing. Continued packing, I should say. I’ve dismantled my electronics and speakers from the living room, folded my last load of laundry and placed it in my bags, and I’ve even begun to pack my carry-on. I’m rather impressed with myself.
Tomorrow’s another big bureaucratic day: I’m getting fired. I’ve known about this for two years, and tomorrow’s the big day. Maybe I’ll even take pictures. And then I plan on coming home to do more packing and then go to dinner at my friend’s house. Wednesday I will formally end my relationship with my bank and continue harassing the telephone company about my final bill. Thursday’s the trip to Sao Paulo—one last Starbucks run!— and then Friday is my final exhale with, hopefully, a yoga class thrown in for good measure. Yikes. I’m. Running. Out. Of. Time.
Tonight my last year’s kids are graduating from 8th grade, so in a few minutes I’m leaving to watch the ceremony. It’s all very exciting. I remember my 8th grade graduation. I wore a pink/orange/red flowered hippie dress (I’m from Vermont, give me a break) and Birkenstocks (again, Vermont) and I had done my hair up nicely. I was not wearing a down jacket with a fur trim like I will be wearing tonight. Did I mention it’s fa-reez-ing here? You wouldn’t believe it. I had big plans to look cute, but now I’m just going to look warm.
So that’s it, folks. My plans for the coming days. Yikes.
Did I mention I cried in the taxi on the way to school? I was thinking about the US Customs Officer saying “Welcome home” like they normally do. And if he doesn’t say it this time, I’m going to ask him if he will. That’s the best part of coming home. (But don’t tell Dennis I said that.)
Also, do me a favor and think some really good thoughts. Send them up to New Hampshire and make them settle over Dartmouth-Hitchcock medical center because my mom’s going in to begin her treatment Wednesday.