Here's the thing, though: The first year I went home, I was really excited. I was excited to be at home. I was excited to see my family. I was excited for the television stations to be on the right channels. When Shelby's Mom was here, I wanted to tell her about a program that was on ABC and the words "channel 13" floated to the top of my brain instead of the station name. It's KIMO 13 up there, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.
But this is not the first year I'm going home. I know the score, now. And I've come to dread it a little bit. Sure, it's great to see my family. Don't get me wrong, I love them to death, but... There are so many things WRONG about going home.
The first and foremost thing is that I have to conceal who I am. I don't like playing roles. I never have. I'd rather be myself than anyone else. And when I go home, there's a box that I have to put myself into. I lived it for 18 years and I don't much like crawling back inside. Even for short periods of times.
My family doesn't know very much about me. Or at least, not about the REAL me. The real me seems to cause problems. The real me causes discomfort and fights, because my role as daughter or niece or grandaughter or WHOEVER just doesn't mesh very well with my role as... What? Semi-professional office worker? Chain smoker? I don't know. Whatever I am now.
The questions are always the same. How is school? How is work? Are you dating anyone? How have you been? And the answers are supposed to be the same, too. Good. Good. Yes/no. Fine. You are not supposed to deviate from the answers. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not violate the box.
I go to work. I drive west on Saginaw and take a left onto Howard Street. I take it two blocks until I hit south 127. I take that about a half a mile until I take the exit onto east 496. I stay on 496 for about three miles and get off St. Joe. I go through two lights and take a left onto Martin Luther King. Heading south. Over the Grand River. Over the overpass. Through more lights. Until I turn left into my work. Or school? That's a whole different map. Ruben's house? Another one. THAT is what's real. THAT'S my routine.
Alaska is what's unreal to me, now. When I first moved, I compared everything to there. And now I've lived in Michigan for 3 1/2 years and I compare everything to here. Alaska isn't my home, anymore. My home is a two bedroom apartment full of people who know ME, not the boxified question-and-answer version of me.
Don't get me wrong, here. I'm not saying that there's not a role to be played with just about everybody. But those roles don't have any danger of giving the wrong impression. Those people don't care what I've been doing. I still answer fine, and I still say good, but even if I said that everything was terrible and I hated my job, they wouldn't care.
My family does care, though, and if I don't answer the questions right, there are more questions. Endless questions. And maybe I'm afraid to let them see me. But only because I don't think they'd understand. The box is there for a reason. It's there because it has to be.
I can't smoke in the house there. I can't get up in the middle of the night and feel comfortable padding out to MY kitchen to drink some of MY water or make myself a snack. I can't go out and sit on my balcony. I can't take my car and drive to the video store. I can't turn on my television or lay in my bed or use my shower.
There's a procedure for doing the laundry up there. The hot water heater is so small that there has to be a schedule for taking showers. At 5:30, the television has to be turned to NBC so that my Mom can watch the news. Garbage goes into an alcove underneath a countertop instead of into a trash can in the pantry. The refrigerator is bigger. The house isn't quite finished. I won't have all my clothes. The dishes are done in order by birthday. None of these things belong in my life anymore.
Everything changes in Alaska. It's a lingering ghost of who I used to be. And when I'm up there, I'm completely alone. I don't have a problem with the ghosts. The nostalgia is kind of fun for a day or two. But ten days? Ten days of ghosts and roles and scripts to be rehearsed? It's too much for me.
So I don't know. I'm going home soon. And I seriously don't know ANYONE who's going to be home this year. Link is gone. Jenny is gone. I've visited other people in past years and they're all gone, too. They made the smart decision. They got the fuck out.
So I won't have anything else to do. I won't have anywhere else to go. If I try to find someone or someplace, I'll be grasping at the straws of desperation. Scraping the absolute bottom of the barrel of people to hang out with or visit. There will be no respite, no break from a maddening 10 days of utter boredom inside my house. We might go up to the snowmachine cabin, but then... Then I'm even more trapped.
Christmas is inevitable. Time moving on is inevitable. Lots of other things are, too. But none of them are as clear and present as Christmas.
Not a single one.