My youngest sister and her boyfriend are running off to New Mexico.
I want to repeat this, because it's necessary for me to let it sink in.
They. Are. Running. Off. To. New. Mexico.
His sister lives there, granted. There's a trailer house with their name on it. There's no electricity yet. They have no money. They have no jobs. They don't have a car. They have *bus tickets*. They leave on Saturday. I'm dealing with this in my usual way, which is complete disbelief and shock. I also bought their tickets online for them after they paid me, which gives it a certain amount of reality, but not very much.
Again. Running off to New Mexico.
It's not that I don't get the timeless romance novel quality of it, though I'm not seeing Alburquerque as a hub of timeless romantic getaways. I *write* this sort of thing. I'm all agog with the richness and purity of their love, that can't go fifteen minutes without an explosion of profanity and arguing and questionable substance use and abuse.
I have no idea why I find this so funny, but every time I think about it, I have the worst case of giggles in history. My mother's completely not dealing with it, and my father's--God alone knows what's going on in his head. My other sister isn't commenting, but she disapproves of any of us having an independent idea on principle. I may be the only one thinking, oh what the hell, *do* it. My aunt is just against it, but I'm not too sure about her motives.
I mean, if I were to lose my mind and pack up Child and drag him across the continent, it wouldn't be Alburquerque, but you know, I can go with that being the place. I suppose what I don't understand is why everyone seems to think it's such a bad idea. Scratch that--I get why it is. What I have never gotten is why people in my family are so down on mistakes.
I mean, let's assume it's a mistake. The odds say it will be. I honestly don't think that matters, but let's go with that. It's a bad idea. What the hell makes that a reason not to do something? Three quarters of the things people do are mistakes. If you're going to make mistakes, make interesting ones. Make ones that will make interesting memories and anecdotes. There's nothing intersting about picking the wrong wine for your beef mistakes.
It's--it's frustrating, on some level. I want Child to make mistakes. That sounds wrong. But it's there. I want him to screw up and learn something from it, or get something out of it, or walk away from it, or find out that it was the right kind of mistake. I don't think you can *get* anywhere without fucking up, and sometimes doing it big time. It's so much worse than never trying anything at all, or only trying things that are safe. Or only trying when you're sure you'll succeed. Life shouldn't be that safe.
I mean, I've yet to have a really epic mistake, but I'm keeping my eye out for a good one to come along, something I can really sink my teeth into. I don't know--quit my job, pack Child onto a plane with two suitcases and minimal money, and move--oh hell, to Chicago, or Atlanta, or maybe Idaho. Fall in love in one night and get married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator. Go to amateur night at a strip club and perform. Okay, that would take so much alcohol. But you get the idea.
I want her to do this. It's the stupidest thing I've ever had an epiphany about, but when my mother very gently insinuated I should talk to her about it, it just hit me all at once. Let her *do* it. Let her enjoy it, let her find out that it's the worst idea in history or the best, but let her figure it all out for herself, let her have this. Send her off with a smile and an open phone line, tell her to call or write and tell us what the weather is like, or how she likes the heat, or what she had for dinner, what she hates and loves and thinks about. Make sure she knows she can come home, but let her know she can make the choice to do it, not let us make it for her.
I think I've actually lost my mind. I need to send some money with her for a phone card. I want to know what the weather's like when she gets off the bus.