Twelve days ago, my husband and I loaded two suitcases, a trunk, two carry-ons, two backpacks, a dog crate, and a very confused chocolate labrador into two vehicles, bound for the airport. After we figured out how many humans (and how many of those silly airport carts) it takes to get all that crap to the ticket desk, got the crate and the dog inspected by the TSA, surrendered our luggage, and bid a tearful goodbye to the dog (who, for the record, was relatively unfazed by everything until we tried to get him into the crate), my darling voice teacher and her husband said, "C'mon. We'll feed ya dinner."
Only after I was clutching my scotch (Laphroig 10 - it'll do) and sucking down oysters did it begin to sink in.
Holy shit, y'all. We're moving to Germany. Like right freaking now.
Thankfully, princess Ambien was on our side and ensured at least 7 hours of sleep aboard our Lufthansa flight. Sammy was waiting for us on the other side of baggage claim, our luggage was unscathed and unopened, the rental station wagon was large enough to accommodate all of our stuff (though it was a bit like Tetris to get it all in), and the roommate of a friend was able to meet us at exactly the right time to pick up the two suitcases we had stored in Frankfurt back in July. What followed was a week that can best be described in the lingo of Jack Donaghy:
Reaganing.
We got ourselves registered at the Ausländerbehörde, put in the paperwork for our health insurance, got my tax ID number, turned in all my paperwork at the opera house, changed our address with the bank, hooked up the internet, ported my cell number into Google Voice, remembered our bags for the grocery store, even made time to practice and work. We were Reaganing like whoa. Which is why it's no surprise that the bottom totally fell out around day 7. Even with the delirium of jet lag, sustaining that kind of "Wow! We are crushing it in a foreign country!" enthusiasm is too much. Things back home required our attention, unexpected snags with foreign language instruction, everyone at the opera house is on vacation so NO, we can't fix your messed up summer paycheck. In short, life happened. Reality happened. And sometimes, reality bites you in the ass.
I don't say any of this as some kind of cautionary tale against optimism or perseverance. I say this because I'm not good at 'rolling with it.' It's not in my skill set. I'm a planner. I'm a do-er. I'm a do-er with at least four backup plans. But what I can't prepare for (and yet, I still try) is the incomprehensibility of the human animal. Crazy shit happens - someone drops a ball, doesn't cop to it, but ultimately it's on you. Worse, a ball gets dropped and no one knows who dropped it, so no one takes responsibility. Once again, that's right, it's on you. If you're one of those people who feels responsibility heavily, which I do. Must be the Protestant work ethic. Or latent Catholic guilt. Or some combination thereof. At any rate. That's not the end of the story. This is the end of the story.
The end of the story is how we deal when shit hits the fan. Or, as I heard the excellent Kurt Vonnegut once say, "when the excrement hits the air conditioner." If you're like me (read: a control freak) you start looking for ways to inject order into an otherwise disorderly world. You pull on your shoes and go for a brisk walk, which you measure on mapmyrun.com when you get back, and you log it into your log. Because logging things helps you feel like progress is being made. You log your expenses into your spreadsheet and write another email to the person in charge to harass them about your paycheck.
But I'm still not finished yet. Because this isn't coping well. This is coping typically.
Coping well is recognizing that you have done all you can do, all that's in your power on this day, and that it's time to take yourself off the hook. Pet the dog. Tack on a little more time to the brisk walk. Don't forget to stretch, even though you're chomping to see if your emails have yielded the result you wish for (they haven't - it's the weekend, you fool), and, as you ease yourself into pigeon position, try to exhale out some of the crazy you've been making. And inhale some of the incredible life you realize you've been freaking out about. Because holy shit, y'all - we live in Germany. All of us. Husband, wife, dog, clothes, toiletries, music, computers, kitchen stuff. We all made it in one piece. And for that major victory, we deserve to cut ourselves some freakin slack.
So my charge to myself today (and to every other overachiever out there) is to stay in my pyjamas. Drink another cup of tea. Read another chapter of whatever you're reading, then another. Enjoy the sunlight coming in through that open window and pet the dog as he pads by. Don't let fear take away the beauty of this moment. Because *poof* it's gone already.
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