I'm back on the plane unraveling my headphones.
You'd think Apple, with it's superior technology, could create better headphones. I sigh. So much of my life in Los Angeles is paused by unraveling my headphones.
I just returned from a meltdown in the bathroom. I saw myself in the mirror and burst into tears. What am I doing? Turn this plane around! Rome is where I belong. What. Am. I. Doing?!?!
(I'm ignoring the fact that I felt the same way about Maui.)
Rome has expanded my ability to see that there could be another version of my life. Up until now, I have worked very hard to live a good life in California. And I have succeeded what with the books published, the highfalutin advertising career and the apartment in Santa Monica with TWO parking spots.
But that was before I met Rome.
I have to get back to Rome. I have to get there, enroll in an Italian language school and practice, practice, practice. I have to find a Roman man, a manly man who can embrace me so that I feel both secure and adored. I have to win the affection of his mamma. I must learn which team to cheer for. I have to practice my guitar so I can play love songs on Sunday afternoons for the family to win their affection—my humble apology for not being born Roman. I'm gonna be the Canadian version of Penelope freaking Cruise for these people. I will make them love me.
I have to liquidate my assets and sell my paintings. I have to decide who and what to keep. I have to give away my plants. I have to make a plan.
I have to get back to Rome.