Cold Feet

Expectations are somewhat of a double-edged sword, the little cousins of Hope and Despair. Sounds a bit dramatic? Believe me, from where I’m sitting right now, it feels even worse. Of course, this anti-climactic crash in excitement is neither uncommon nor unexpected. I get it regularly, whether I’m supposed to spend a weekend at my mum’s, go to a concert, or even just attend a reading near my house. Invariably, I’ll be looking forward to going until the event is nearly upon me, at which point all I want to do is crawl into a hole and die (or hibernate, if you prefer less drastic measures).

My upcoming trip to Perth is no exception and indeed is worse than usual. Then again, the build-up has been much more intense and enganging, as well. In three short days, I’ll drag my behind through four airports to reach my destination. I might meet with some undoubtedly lovely people while there, stay at a cosy place near the beach, see the sights, soak up some sun, and generally live the fabulous life. Still all I can think right now is how cool it would be to just stay here, sleep in and go on with the daily routine. What if it rains? What if I hate it? What if it hates me? What if it turns out to be a colossal waste of time? WA, after all, never greatly featured on my map, like, ever. Plus, there’s that tiny superstitious voice in the back of my mind whispering that there once was a time in my younger days when I believed I’d be safe in air travel as long as I hadn’t realised my dream to go to Australia. This trip is my second. What if I’m tempting fate?

Ridiculous? Don’t be so unkind! High-strung, overwrought and entirely exaggerated? You bet your bootie! Fortunately, as we learn from studying economics, every system has its ups and downs, and this too shall pass. By this time next week, you’ll all be bored with my constant outbreaks of rapture. Meanwhile, thanks for listening.


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