Snow White Boomers

My title, you ask? Just a shout-out to the best Christmas song I've ever heard. Year after year, the Top40 DJ's reluctantly dust off this classic for another spin on the radio, and year after year, I find myself in traffic, tapping my fingers on the side of the steering wheel, and occasionally letting loose with an off-pitched, "six white boomers, snow white boomers!"

No, it's okay. I am legitimately obseessed with being Australian. Not that I am. At all. I'm probably one of the most Canadian girls you'll find. Driving in the snow? Bring it on. Wear a touque all winter long (even to sleep, this morning when I passed out on my bed using my coat as a blanket because I was actually too tired to get under the covers)? That's a no brainer. Snowsuit under my halloween costume as a kid? Yeehaw!

I don't remember what my point is. Oh yeah - Australia. The boomers. So what I was thinking was that clearly I was born in the wrong country if my favorite Christmas song is Aussie. Okay - reality check. (*taking a deep breath, and then almost choking on my Lucky Charms when I notice that my grandfather has added me to his msn. Does anyone else find that strange?) The question is: Am I seriously considering going to Australia for grad school (a journey of self-enlightenment and year-round oceanic inspiration), or am I a complete chicken? I think the jury's out on that one. I think I'm a chicken. I don't have the money to do anything with my life. And I don't have the balls to leave the people that I care about. I already did it once, and it was ... I don't even have words. Let's revisit, shall we?

Sitting in the Calgary airport at 11:00pm on a Sunday night in early September 2001. My boxes have already been shipped ahead of me to Kingston, and I have a small overnight bag, a package of Twizzlers, my journal and my best friend with me. This was a week-and-a-half or so pre-9/11, so Adam had been issued a gate pass, and we were sitting silently side-by-side in the green plastic airport chairs that weren't meant for such epic goodbyes. I remember him holding my hand, twisting and intertwining our fingers as if we could stop the clock from chugging away towards midnight. I don't remember what we talked about - if we talked. I don't remember the last time I turned around to see if he was still looking at me through the window. The plane was empty, and I slumped into a window seat, and sat staring at his small figure in the terminal. We took off, and I pulled out my diary and started writing, and at some point about 15 minutes into the flight, it hit me, and I lost it. It wasn't a painful, panicked cry - it was, however, the saddest moment of my life. I felt like my heart was gone. Adam later told me that has he was driving home, he pulled over on the side of the highway and cried. This surprised me - the only other time I had ever seen him cry was in grade 7 when he tripped over a chain on the playground by Beth's house and face-planted into the gravel. He didn't cry when Lexie broke up with him, or when his parents split up. But that night, I was somewhere over Saskatchewan, and he was on the side of the Deer Foot Trail, and we were both letting go of a friendship that had already spanned a decade.

'Cause nothing's the same, y'know?

I want to talk about S. That's really what's on my mind. I want to find some way of describing how real and life-changing this is. I want someone to tell me how not to screw it up.

But I'm so tired. And so excited for Thursday ... I just have to survive the rest of my Art History paper, my 301 paper, some errands, my 301 journal, my 313 evaluation, one walkhome shift, and 5 loads of laundry before I get there :)