(fortune cookie)

It's 5:00 pm and I'm sitting on the couch wondering how I could possibly still be stuffed from lunch. Of course, as I wonder this, I immediately recall the parade of deliciousness that sauntered across my palate this afternoon at P.F. Chang's with my mom's family. I'll spare you the details, since I'd hate to incite lust or jealousy in the hearts of my innocent readers ;) Just know that it was interesting, tasty, and bountiful.

At the end of the feeding frenzy, I opened up a fortune cookie as an afterthought. I sighed customary relief to find that my future holds no "short stranger soon entering my life"--the fortune my mother received twice in her life just prior to discovering she was pregnant with me and just prior to finding out James was on the way. Short stranger danger averted, my fortune instead read:

"You are a lover of words; someday you should write a book."

Not a bad idea. Maybe I will.

Someday.

For now, I'm more than content to gather material.

(a tribute to my monkey boxers)

In keeping with the recent theme of my posts, it seems August is just the month for goodbyes and moving on--so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that even my most favorite pajama boxers got in on all the farewell action the other day. 

Yes, in the sad picture to your left is a ragged scrap of what was once the best pajama article to ever grace my drowsy body.  You can see that the ubiquitous monkey boxers (rather, what's left of them) have a new home in my box of letters, papers, diplomas and keepsakes. It is a place they have certainly earned--hanging out on my rear end every night for the past two years! They were loose, stretchy, cool, completely unattractive and totally amazing. Many of you experienced just how happy these monkey boxers used to make me, especially, but certainly not limited to roommates. I think even the locksmith in Rome has seen them, since the one time I ever had to call a locksmith, I was of course locked out of the house in my pajamas. We've been through a lot together, my monkey boxers and me: from all-nighters to restless (leg) nights to dozy naps to lazy Saturday mornings. Lately I often find myself at a loss, reaching for my old standby in the evenings before remembering with a sigh that the monkeys met their match. That match was, incidentally, the Blacks' dog Maya, who snuck into my room one night while I was absorbed in my Cosby Show DVDs and had a toothy go at my beloved pajamas. 

So now you know the sad story of why a swatch of cotton with a monkey on it is in my keepsake box. 

Oh, and as a bonus: Voilà the culprit, Maya. Quite a sweet, if high maintenance, puppy dog (I probably would have been much angrier if her ears weren't so soft and cute.): 

So all good things must come to an end, it seems. Even perfect monkey boxers. *Sigh*

(two hundred thousand million years)

As promised, a brief post. This one is a transcription of a conversation I had last night, with almost-eight-year-old, very theatrical Michael Black:
...
Michael: Are you leaving today?

Emilee: Nope, I'm leaving your house tomorrow, but then I'll go to Germany on Monday--in 5 days.

Michael: Well, I wish it was in two hundred thousand million years.

Emilee: I'm gonna miss you, too, Michael.
...

(for all my roommates)

Now, I’d hate to give the impression that I’ve been counting down to departure. But If I were, I’d be able to say that I have 8 days left, and that the anticipation is certainly mounting as my days left in the States continue to dwindle.

This post, however, isn’t about t-minus 8 days. It’s about t-minus 9 days—Saturday—and how I came home at the end of it somehow feeling more content after 3 important goodbyes than before them. It might take me a while to get back to it, but if you read patiently I promise I’ll get there.

My mom asked me the other day if saying so many goodbyes was getting to me. She asked because she had observed an absence of mopiness in my demeanor, which struck her as strange. Here’s the funny thing—what my mother noticed is an actually an accurate reflection of how I’ve responded to the big “moves” in my life lately.

And boy, have there been moves. Since starting college 4 years ago and counting the move I’ll make in a week or so, I’ve lived in no less than 8 locations, with even more people. For those interested the progression, it’s as follows: My Parents’-->Berry Dorm-->Paris-->Clara Apartment-->Honeycutts’-->5 Norwood Street-->Blacks’-->Villefranche-de-Rouergue. Not to mention the life stage shifts—from living with my parents to becoming a college student to navigating foreign lands and languages to finding my academic self to suddenly finding my general self out of school, hoping I’m ready for real adulthood in another country. Not surprisingly, I’ve gained a deep appreciation for nomads who somehow retain a sense of purpose and consistency in their travels despite constantly uprooting and transplanting their lives.

I don’t presume to consider my transience unique. I hardly know anyone my age who can’t match or exceed my tally of locations, life stages, and roommates. But if you’ll recall, this post isn’t about impressing you with how much I’ve moved and adjusted. That’s just prep work ;)

This post is about why my mom noticed I don’t mope after goodbyes, and how (rather paradoxically) I feel more content than I have in a long time immediately following such a quick succession of farewells yesterday evening.

Two of the goodbyes were to my roommates of the last two years. You read “roommates” and probably imagine three girls (women? nah.) who occupy the same living space and hopefully get along well. Who are even friends, if they’re lucky. What you don’t know about Molly, Elizabeth, and I is that we were more of an institution than peaceful co-existers. I take that back. I was lucky enough to get in on the Molly-Elizabeth roommate institution halfway through. I never imagined that I’d get two of my dearest friends out of a makeshift living arrangement—but I did. The other goodbye was to one of the few, the proud “Honorary Roommates”—and my longest “best friend,” Donnovin. 10 years of best-friendship shouldn’t need any more explanation than that.

Over the summer, I also saw my second-longest “best friend,” serial roommate, and pretty-much sister Ann off to a new life in Bolivia with her husband and my friend, too, Drew. Sure, I got a little teary, but nothing more serious than a little nostalgia that was quickly brushed aside.

I’m not finished with goodbyes, yet, either. Next week I’ll say goodbye to the Blacks, my “housemates” for this summer—a family I’ve known, learned from, enjoyed, and babysat for since middle school. Reconnecting with them and being part of their daily lives has been one of the joys of my summer, and I’ll certainly miss them. I’ll also say goodbye to the ultimate roommates—my parents and James.

So why am I not more sad? Sure, there’s the fact that I’m going on an adventure and have so much of the unknown to look forward to. I’ve missed Europe and speaking another language and am excited to try my hand at life as a bona fide grown-up. But if my only reason for not being sad were that I’ll be too distracted to notice it, that would be a bit sad in itself, don’t you think?

Here’s the thing: While I’m saying goodbye to home friends, I’m on my way to spending three weeks with our Senior Honorary Roommate, Anne, in Berlin. She lived with Molly, Elizabeth and I for seven weeks in the Spring, which is why she’s the Senior Honorary Roommate. While in Europe, I’ll get to visit my roommate from Paris, D’yon—the roommate with whom I spent and processed all that comes with a year abroad. No, I’m not so easily distracted that I’ll forget about missing my roommates (including the honorary ones). It’s just—how can I be pitiful or dramatic about these “goodbyes” when I’ve experienced over and over how my path continually crosses and recrosses those of people dear to me? My leaving is, in itself, confirmation of why these goodbyes are perhaps a bit sentimental, but not serious or lasting. And that tally of transitions? The larger that number gets, the more confirmation I have that changes in life stage, emotional state, and physical location are variable props on a stage floor constructed of significant relationships—NOT the other way around.

I couldn’t muster any real depression if I tried, not when there are so many “roommates” in my life ready to plan for our paths to cross again. My life is full of people who know my stories, and whose stories I know by heart. We have “our” songs, private jokes, common experiences, goals, and interests. We’ve lived together. So what if most of us aim to be global nomads? We’ll have more interesting stories to tell when we finally do get back together.

And do you know what my favorite part is? Almost everyone I’ve mentioned knows everyone I’ve mentioned. I don’t have “categories” of roommates. Anne knows D’yon from when she visited me in Paris. Molly and Elizabeth welcomed that Anne into our home for seven weeks, no questions asked. D’yon came to visit in Rome, and though she and Donnovin have never met, they both know all about each other, and even joke about things involving the other one they just heard about through me. Donnovin was an instant hit with M and E junior year, and we all spent the afternoon together yesterday. I’m friends with Drew because he married my best friend, and Molly and Elizabeth met Ashley and Bryant Black at the coolest wedding we’ve ever been to, which just happened to be Ann's and Drew’s.

I’ve often rejoiced in being able to declare that I’ve never had a bad roommate. The fact that my dearest friends are people I’ve lived with certainly bodes well for the future. I’ve realized I’m excited to find out who I can throw into the mix this year, since every addition to the roster has been a smashing success. I certainly hit the living arrangement jackpot.

And that’s why goodbyes don’t make me mopey.

See, I told you I’d eventually get to the point. And I promise—the next post will be short and pithy (I hope). Hell, maybe I’ll just post pictures ;)