Welcome back to the exciting conclusion of my family vacation! I hope you all enjoyed taking this trip with me.
Grandpa came to take us to the airport. I was a little bummed I didn’t get to see Rich again before we left, since he is pretty much my favorite uncle. He’s just a cool guy. I mean, shit, when we lived out there he would go chasing tornadoes! I never got to go, though, because my mom was uncharacteristically cruel to me back then (*snort*).
The trip to the airport was fine and we all said goodbye. The usual stuff, nothing out of the ordinary. Get through security, delayed flight, blah, blah, blah.
Oh my GAW. They shuffle us all onto this fucking rickety tin-can of a plane that is somehow supposed to take us two hours into Los Angeles. This thing was held together with superglue and rubber bands.
It was the shakiest, most terrifying flight I’ve ever been on. And, guys, I’m not afraid of flying. I’m not. I’m not a fan of my ears popping, but flying is fine, otherwise. But, hand to the heavens, I thought I was going to die on that shaky-ass landing.
And then, of course, we’re stuck in LAX on a layover. I’m still terrified and generally miserable (because, oh, I am not a fan of LA and I have some particularly unpleasant memories of LAX specifically) and on edge. The entire time I just kept saying, “They better put us on a real plane.”
While we waited, Pup and I went to Carl’s Jr because 1) mom and I needed to be separated, because we were both on edge from the scary landing and I was ready to fist fight God, and 2) I don’t know, I think he thought maybe food would shut me up. Of course, because it’s LA and LA is awful, Carl’s Jr managed to fuck up my order, but whatever. At this point I was too tired and angry to give a damn.
Then, they shuffled us onto a newer tin-can that wasn’t held together with superglue and rubber bands, but still wasn’t a real plane. The trip into San Diego was about a half hour or so. The landing was much smoother. All in all, that was a much better flight.
I will spare you all from the details of the drama of trying to figure out how to get back to the parking lot with our car in it. I will just say that by the time we figured it out, I was ready to turn my ass around and go back to Colorado, alone. I was actually contemplating just running straight out into the ocean and letting a shark eat me. Maybe I’d have gotten hit by a car crossing the freeway to get there; that would have been cool, too.
I was irritated.
But, we made it home intact. I promptly face-planted in my bed, ready to rest from the vacation.
I didn’t realize how much I missed my family until I was back around them. All of my dad’s family lives in California, and I grew up with them. I love them, but I’m very different from them. I’m more outwardly emotional, I’m mentally ill, and I’m interested in weird things like animal skeletons and swords. As wonderful as they are, I’m not very close with them (which is at least 75% my own fault, because angry teenage me hardly made any sort of effort–“No one in this family understands me!”).
I expected as much from my mom’s side of the family: somewhat awkward, but polite socializing, while not being entirely sure what actually to say to each other. I’d forgotten how very much I fit in to all of that insanity. The emotion, the passion, the weird habits and strange interests.
For the first time in a very long time, I felt like I really, really belonged with people.
Although, ironically enough (as this trip was also supposed to be a way for me to “sell” Colorado to Pup; I’ve been trying to convince him to move there for years), it made me appreciate California a little bit more, too. Coming home felt really good. I was excited to be back in my own city. And maybe–just maybe–I could stay here, okay.
It was a good trip and I miss it already. But, I’m also really glad to be home.
I love you all.