Three Saturdays from now, I will be flying across the Atlantic Ocean, and landing in Venice. I am spending spring break with my painting instructor and sixteen other fortunate individuals on a Renaissance Art tour of Italy. Only, I don't feel so lucky.
Nerves. Nerves. Nerves. As someone who used to succumb to the myriad of mental pictures my anxiety would provide, I have to expend a lot of mental energy keeping the "what is the worst that could happen" demons at bay. Once, I leave for the actual trip, I am usually fine. This will be the first time in twenty years since I have crossed the Pacific, and twenty-five since I have crossed the Atlantic.
I was only fifteen and twenty years old, respectively, which accounts for the majority of my anxiety at the time. Now that I am much older, wiser, and secure, my main concern is being away from my four, beautiful boys and my partner-in-crime, Patrick, for ten days. I have never been away longer than a weekend at a Zumba Convention or further than Florida.
But, as I sit here and write this, I am unsure of what exactly I am afraid of, besides the unknown.
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