Every morning I wake up to the annoying beep of the Indiglo Alarm Clock sitting on my nightstand. Then I stumble over to my computer hoping for an out-of-the ordinary e-mail to transform my life into a fairy tale only to find Biondi’s newest monthly message. Sigh. It’s just another day and I will survive the lengthy lectures and always-delicious cafeteria food. I’m moving at a thousand miles a minute and often have to remind myself to stop and breathe.
It’s a schedule and sadly, it’s my life.
Frankly, I’m tired of it. I’m in desperate need of a vacation from myself. Then I hear stories of people backpacking their way through Europe. They have no money or jobs but somehow find a way to scrape together the funds for a cargo ticket and a Europass. They run about for months on end sharing life stories with random people on trains, not knowing when or how they’ll find their next meal and occasionally sending “thinking of you” postcards home, just to let people know they’re still alive.
I admit it, I’m jealous. I like backpacking and even have a pack shoved under my bed ready to go. I like Europe and have managed to leave the continental United States in my lifetime. However, as much as I like Europe and backpacking, I will never combine the two and wander about aimlessly.
The problem is simple: I’m too responsible.
It’s almost a disorder. I don’t know how to just let things go. If I stop moving for just a minute, I’m either sleeping or thinking about something I should be doing. Somehow, I’ve adopted this super-human complex. I am She-Ra of the modern day, female master of the universe. I can’t just “let it be” as the Beatles so wisely sang.
I do take comfort, though, in the fact that I am not alone. The backpackers are a minority today. The responsible members of society, however, drive the world behind our cell phones and call-waiting beeps. Our parents teach us to cherish responsibility as if it were a reward. What were they thinking? I had dreams as a child to never become completely responsible. My plan was just to be really good at pretending to be responsible. I think I have failed miserably.
The thing is, I could throw all my worldly possessions into the back of my Explorer and hit the road tomorrow. But the reality is, I won’t. Tonight, when the day is finally over I’ll fall into bed as I realize all the things I failed to check off my to-do list. I can’t go. People would miss me. My mother wouldn’t know where I was and I would hopelessly fail Anatomy. Besides, people need me, or at least I think they do.
Maybe it’s all just an illusion we create for ourselves so we feel important, whether we have those fifteen minutes of fame or not. There’s no reason why we can’t just pick up and go nomadically parade around the world. Life really isn’t that complicated. It just can’t be.
As a child I used to read Alexander and the Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, a story about one of those days that we all have. Alexander, the five-year-old, threatens to move to Australia after each thing goes wrong. I hear Australia is nice this time of year, lots of sunny beaches and blokes from the outback. I still love that book and even have a copy sitting on my desk.
Someone told me once that sometimes you just have to do something crazy to remind yourself that you are alive. I’m not quite ready to hop on a plane to Europe but if you see a blonde girl from Colorado trekking around Forest Park with a blue backpack strapped to her back, just smile and join me. We can be irresponsible together and maybe just maybe, maintain our sanity.
