Whenever I get nervous in any particular way, my stomach is always the first system to fail. Back in my younger days, before a performance, I would wait in the wings, and I would get such bad gas that my stomach would cramp into a million knots. Before any job interview, I always have to make at least three emergency trips to the bathroom. Whenever I sense conflict in the offing, I get this horribly nauseous feeling - I'd rather throw up, but I can't. It just sits there, lurking in the pit of my stomach like I've swallowed a brick.
For the last two days, I have been so incredibly sick to my stomach, I can't describe it. It feels a lot like those surreal first weeks of pregnancy, where the mere mention of certain foods can send you running for the bathroom. Trouble is, I'm not pregnant. I have no decent excuse for my nausea except that my stomach always knows a little more than it lets on.
Every time I think about the future, another wave of nausea hits. It could be the excitement - there are parts of my plan that thrill me down to the bone. For brief moments, I'm almost giddy with the sense of possibility. On the other hand, it could be the sheer terror of the unknown. Change doesn't always come easy to me, and when I don't know exactly what the outcome of any given situation will be, I tend to imagine the absolute worst, whether or not it's even realistic.
At this point, I just want to make the change and be done with it. These last few weeks before the change-over are the worst: reality is never as awful as my imagination. Better the devil you know then the devil you don't...
There is a major financial component to all of this - if two main things don't fall into place, this can't happen. I'd planned my move for the second week of June, but if my ducks aren't all in a row by then, then I'll have to keep pushing back the date, which seriously keeps screwing with my stomach. If I was a praying person, I would be down on my knees right now, begging my deity of choice to please please please make this all work out soon. But I'm not, and there's a nagging little corner of my brain wondering if my refusal to pray about this is causing an angry god to punish me with a slow real-estate market. Of course that's ridiculous, but still, I want to get this over with so badly I could just scream. It's the ripping off of the band-aid. You have to do it quickly. Prolonging the act doesn't help anyone. If I had any luck, I'd buy a PowerBall ticket. If I had a death wish, I'd rob a bank. If I lost all my pride, I'd go begging to family. None of those ifs apply to me, though, so it's all down to watchful waiting and hoping.
I feel a bit guilty for being so excited for this move. It's not as though I'm excited at the prospect of leaving my husband behind, the idea that my marriage may not last a lifetime, the idea that my kids might not grow up in a traditional nuclear family. At the same time, though, things have been so bad lately that the idea of maintaining the status quo is just untenable. Something has to give, and this may be the ticket.