This is me, chilling in front of the computer. I want to tell you about the crazy business that happened to me last week, so I'm thinking of words to fill it in. I guess it is time for back story (that's one of my favorite parts of starting something new - there is a tonne of back story):
In March, I was in my last 30 days of 17 and I realized I needed some kind of plan to drag me through the weird transition from high school students to certified adult. So I looked into a couple different volunteer jobs out of province, because I like to volunteer and I like to travel. I found Katimavik, something I had heard about in passing once or twice but never thought too much about because I am a child and I don't need to make any real life decisions. But during the last weeks of teenage hood, I rediscovered this program and got super excited about it. The website made it sound like all you had to do was fill out an application and in a couple months you would be living in Quebec, garbling your supposed second language and living with strangers and a million other things with varying degrees of wonder and monotony.
I was indescribably shocked when they rejected my application (yes, I am incredibly vain and conceited, deal). So I cried a few tears and moved on, trying for a few things farther afield. Unfortunately (or fotunately, if you would like to see it that way), I was still on the mailing list, so I received a proposal to apply to another program with them, and at the urging of my mother, I did so. I had since moved past surprise when it came to them, so when I received a second rejection from them, I quickly moved on. I unconsciously buried my memories of that Katimavik nonsense with things like my birthday, summer and life in general.
When the third email arrived, this one asking me to join the wait list, my finger was poised over the delete key when my mom said that I should apply anyway. That insidious 'What's the worst that could happen?' convinced me and I nodded my head in disgruntled acquittance.
I guess that cliche that says the third time's the charm might have some basis in reality.
In approximately 30 days, I will be on a plane to Calgary and commencing my life out in the 'real world'. It's thrilling and terrifying to accept that I will be out of the bed I have slept in for the last five years, away from the bowls from which I have eaten cereal out of, and off the streets that I could walk down blindfolded and find the library I owe my soul to, the biscotti shop that is never open, or the yarn shop that remembered 12 months after the fact that I had ordered something from them. In the last five days, I have applied for a Visa (strangely simple, FYI), gotten a Police Record Check (squeaky clean, thank you very much), clean my closet of the summer things I will not need in the winters of Alberta and picked the five books that will hopefully keep me occupied for the next six months. I had a last ditch slumber party, wrote my Christmas wish list (which included tooth brush heads and wool socks) and tried to wrap my head around the fact that my plans were coming to fruition - even if it was 9 months after their invention.
I guess that I should end this with some witty parting comment, but I've never been very good at that. So I will instead say goodnight and good luck (mostly the luck is for me, but you can have some too).
