While driving to a Travel Store in Wallingford I listened to an NPR special on autism. Felt scared…worried I might have a son and if I do he has a 1 in 70 chance of having autism. Decide I won’t have sons; instead I resign to having hysterical girls I can dress up in cute clothes. Then I feel shallow, so I decide that if I DO have a kid with autism, my teaching experience with children who have had autism will lend itself to the situation. Then I look up to see if a thunderbolt from God will come crashing down on me for having such negative thoughts.

I arrive at the over priced Travel store and buy a money belt–what the hell right? It’s made out of silk. I buy the floor sample so they give me 10% off. Bought a travel pillow that deflates for easy storage. I opt for the larger travel pillow–the one with a picture of a man on the front instead of a woman–with the thought that I should ‘go for it.’ I meander around the store looking at ridiculously commercialized travel products: like a Rick Steve’s hand towel and an overpriced 2 ounce bottle of Travel Hand Sanitizer for 4.99 (I bought the same thing at Rite Aid for 1.50). I start getting nervous so I leave the travel store.

Then I look for shoes in the U District…sneakers, or something that I can walk for hours in, stare at paintings at the Louvre, and wear while hiking to the Eiffel tower. In my mind, I’m looking for green fashion sneakers…preferably New Balance and women’s sized instead of men’s. I find nothing like this. I do find an incredibly cheap pair of Tsubo mary janes that I would normally be all over but they’re not supportive enough for the trip. I’m trying to be really good and not blow tons of money on pre-trip supplies–opting to blow tons of money in euros in Paris instead. I decide against these hideous green and mustard yellow sneakers that are so ugly they’re almost cool. I entertain the idea of black sneakers, but can’t let go of my hope for green ones. I browse through a sporting goods store at regular sneakers that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing with jeans. The Birkenstock Store has perfect shoes–40% off too–but nothing close to my size. I’m heart broken and exhausted.

I take a break from shoe shopping and go into the U Book store where I buy the paperback “Snow Flower and the Secret Fan” by Lisa See. This is the book my new book group has chosen and I decide it will be perfect reading for the plane. I also buy a cheap knock off moleskin journal for all my private thoughts. The journal is bright red and about half the cost of the moleskin brand. I decide I can skimp on the journal-I’m only going for 8 days. (I visualize my first journal entry: At the airport waiting for the plane, how am I going to sit still for 9 hours? )

Then I meet up with A at her adorable Eastlake apartment and we spend three hours choreographing for “Lady” by Styx. It’s a revolutionary time as we roll (literally) all over her hardwood floor. We take a break from dancing and she buys me a soda at the corner store and then we pick up her dry cleaning at the place next door. I tell her everything and she shares in return. I like having a new lady friend. It distracts me from my impending trip, my soon-to-be bravery, flying to a country all alone without the cush of my husband as a travel partner.

When I get home I dump all my travel purchases out onto the kitchen table for Josh to look at. He thinks the money belt is cute–even though it’s the same size and shape as a sanitary napkin. We go on a walk in our neighborhood at dusk–exercise to make up for the ballet class I skipped out on. Despite the crisp clear sunshine during the day the sun is down by the time we walk and the air is frigid. My husband and I make obscene jokes–well, actually it’s all me–and I quiz him on what BBC really stands for. I tease him about his upcoming 8 days of bachelorhood–although secretly I’m worried about what he’s going to eat. Visions of him eating nothing but cold cereal dances in my head. I can see him eating three squares a day: Cheerios for breakfast, Wheat Flakes for Lunch, and Peanut Butter Puffins for dinner.

We get home and our cat, as if on cue, starts wildly dancing in the kitchen. It’s after dark and she knows the rule: wet cat food only at night. She prances all over the place, screaming at the top of her lungs, until finally Josh slathers some wet food on a plate. I make him dust it with this special anti-plaque stuff I bought for her teeth–it supposedly tastes like cheese and cats love it. My cat hates the dust, but puts up it with merely for the pleasure of wet cat food.

We watch Oprah at 9pm while eating a Trader Joe’s pizza. I’m highly disturbed by the fact that Billy Joel is 56 and his new wife is 23. I’m REALLY disturbed, actually, and can’t shut up about it. I feel intense cynicism about their marriage’s longevity. My husband leaves to go play Xbox and I start watching a paparazzi style show. The edits are so fast I feel my brain zinging all over trying to catch up. I decide that this isn’t good ‘before bedtime’ tv material. I go to bed and curl up with my new favorite book: “The Year of Living Biblically” (which I HIGHLY recommend). I fall asleep with Hobbes slowly kneading my kneecaps–her desire for more wet cat food subtly being communicated through my covers.