There’s no way of describing the much-too-near-ending of Project Equator, other than simply wanting to go but not wanting to leave. But even that seems to not accurately frame the thoughts running through my mind.
With the companionship of a fan whirling overhead, the unwanted second skin of heat that is incessant on tightly hugging every inch of my body, and the sounds of buzzing, chirping, croaking, cock-a-doodle-doing, I am destined to lie in bed; to stare knowingly up at the ceiling, thinking of things I would rather not think. And the things I would rather not think surprise me to no end, because, up until now, I had the impression that it would be easy.
Easy to go home.
But it’s not. I’m stuck in a game of what-if, caught up in all the scenarios, staring up at a ceiling feeling guilty for not treasuring the day that it’s meant to be, and that so many others wish they could have. So I close my eyes. I try to dumb it down. I try to get to a place where things add up.
When I open my eyes again, they’re not angled towards the sky anymore, but to the ground. To the bed and to me on the bed. Sitting to an upright position, because I have to do something, I slowly begin moving to the direction of my legs. And the weight of the world suddenly begins to crash down hard, again. Though let’s not chalk it up to being a sulky teenager just yet.
Dark hairs line my skin and I flop heavily onto my back. Of course by now I’m way too fed up with all these extremities to second guess the mental wellness that decided hair was something to stress and express about. Lifting my legs, I examine the fine follicles and this time there’s only a feeling of regarded numbness. So I haven’t shaved in a few days? Who gives a — never mind. I mean, at least I’ve gotten to the point where it’s soft to the touch. And with all these hippie / organic people cruising around in Ubud, I could totally pass it off as being earthy, all natural, and the likes. But no. That’s just plain weird. Who would want that?
Shutting my eyes again, to hopefully get liberated from the annoying situation at hand, I reopen only to come face to face with the ceiling. No matter how long I gaze, wishing for some light at the end of the tunnel, deep down I secretly know that it’s actually very easy.
Easy to shave my legs.
Now, you might be thinking that this is getting to be a very strange blog post. You’re not so sure if you want to keep reading because obviously the author is dealing with some “issues” and maybe this whole year long trip has been too much for her to handle. But, no need to worry… whatever this mind block is that I have got going on can swiftly be taken care of. All with the swipe of a blade.
And so I find myself paddling into the surf. It’s a Saturday. Surfing day. My legs are smooth and blocked up with sunscreen along with my thoughts of home. Though I’ll always be nervous with anticipation for the big day to come—whether it stems from being reunited with friends and family, loving the trip and not wanting to go home, wanting to go home but curious on how the trip will impact my life onwards—there’s the knowing that with each new growing stubble of hair and each new reflection of Mercer Island, I just have to suck it up. Harsh, I know. Though there’s no other way of dealing with the much-too-near-ending of Project Equator, other than to realize each day that passes is one that will never happen again. Not in the sense that, yeah everyday is like that, but that I’ll have plenty of time sitting in a classroom and not a lot being in Bali on a trip around the world. The rest can wait.
So shave your legs and start living.
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