How to phone home

I had a very long weekend. Very. Very. Long.

I won’t go into the sordid details here, because honestly, it really doesn’t matter all the crap that happened, only that all of this crap caused me an insane amount of stress and worry. The kind of stress and worry that makes you physically ill and unable to sleep. And before you all freak out, everything is fine. But I wasn’t sure it was going to be fine until about 5 p.m. today, so I’m still coming down from my extreme worry-high.

Last night I sat down with mounds of laundry that I had ignored throughout the past few days. I was completely drained and exhausted, but I’d been putting off this task forever, and since we leave for New Jersey in a few days I knew it had to be done. I flipped on the TV and hoped, even prayed, for a nice, simple romantic comedy. Hell, I’d even settle for some mind-numbing Nicolas Cage crap (which I almost did).

Then, as I flipped channels rapidly, attempting to put off my horrid task a few moments longer, I lingered on a screen that said, “Directed by Steven Spielberg” over a black background. An orchestra swelled over the speakers. And for a few moments I was transported back to 7-years-old. I was snuggled up to my sister on the couch of her sorority house over siblings weekend. She let us eat marshmallow cereal for dinner. We were underneath flannel blankets, in the dark chapter room, all light kept out by the plaid curtains. I would cower toward her when the alien came onto the screen, and we both cried when Elliot got sick.

And for a little bit, I wasn’t stressed. I just felt like myself again.