So there’s this part about studying abroad that no one ever tells you about. The part where you’re walking to class and suddenly have this vivid, I don’t know, vision of Germany. An incredibly detailed, real-life flashback of sorts to a particular part of town or campus that had long ago been filed into the deep recesses of your brain. “That was cool,” you think, and perhaps you dwell and reminisce, but let’s face it– you can’t spend too much time browsing Expedia for discounted Oktoberfest flights because you’re back in your full time life you have to live. But then maybe it’s because you work in the study abroad office, or maybe because you’ve been recently chatting with your friends who were also in your program; either way, it starts to become more than just That One Time I Studied Abroad. (Beware: shit’s about to get real up ahead.) It eventually becomes you trying to go to sleep at the end of a gloomy, but otherwise uneventful day, but you can’t because your brain’s stuck on a million things, but mostly just how damn much you miss the whole thing. MAYBE you start crying (and then seriously question your mental state.) You rationally acknowledge that this is probably because you found freedoms and independence while living abroad that you’re still grappling with over here. That maybe you’re scared you’re a senior and that was your last time to really live it up before the 9-5 grind of adult life really sets in. But maybe you just really miss your neighbors and the stuffy old ladies on the bus and how your nasty, mildewy hallway smelled, and how the kitchen floor creaked every time someone opened the refrigerator. Maybe you’re mad that your handle on the German language is quickly escaping you and that people want to see you so often when Don’t you know you already lived without me for four months?
If nothing else, I can be thankful I only went for one semester because apparently I would have found a roof or bridge a long time ago if I’d devoted a whole year of my life to loving up on Luneburg (if you couldn’t tell, the above diatribe was about me. I know– you were completely fooled.) Honestly, I don’t know where this has all come from, and I’m sure you’re reading, thinking, “Just get the hell over it,” because mathematically, I’ve now been home the same amount of time I was gone. No, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I wouldn’t even really mind all this nostalgia save for the fact it’s just made me plum sad. I’m sure I’ve been just a peach to be around (hey– two fruit references in two sentences!) and this doesn’t even include all the other stuff that keeps me up at night, i.e. how much I despise my classes, if I’m doing enough for my jobs, how one even goes about starting the job hunt process, heartburn, the goddamn train I live next to.
…and if you’ve made it to the end, you deserve a gold star and possibly a shot.

My last night in IC was better than anything I could have asked for or Facebook event-ed for myself.  Magically I saw almost everyone I would have wanted to hang out with at some point in the evening which was NEAT-O.  Lots of people hugged me, and I hugged them back (I know, you’re shocked– this whole maturing thing is weirding me out, too.)  Today I had leftover pokey sticks for breakfast and Hy-Vee chinese for lunch.  The stabbing stomach pains that have resulted do not want dinner, just water and sleep.  And my THROAT hurts like a SONUVABITCH, so that’s cool– getting sick for Christmas.

Things I don’t want to talk about: saying good-bye to NPH.  Can I just say that I never cried in front of anyone during this whole going away process?  I’m quite proud of myself for that.  I mean, my car might be a different story and other drivers on I-80 tonight were probably extemely concerned that I was going to careen through a guardrail at any point, but STILL– the actual parting of ways was not that bad.  The resulting wallowing is pretty painful, at least for those around me anyway.  It’s not like anyone’s dying or anything, and I’m starting to get REALLYEXCITED for Germany, but separation anxiety is still no picnic.

Things I would love to talk about: the scholarship letter I got in the mail today.  Woo-hoo, journalism school!  By some weird miracle I applied  on time and the powers that be decided my grades and stroke-of-luck writing samples warranted a big ol’ check to help pay for college.  That’s pretty boss.

I’m home, my parents are off at a Christmas party, I’M GOING TO BED.  It’s 7 pm.  Wow, Brittney.  Your life is too.much.fun. to handle.  Hey– this little illness festering away in my nodes isn’t going to go away by itself.  Also, when one is mourning the loss of their partner in crime for five months, sleep is a much more attractive option than watching I Love You, Man with your brother because it would just remind you of the Paul Rudd poster hanging over the TV in 713’s living room and then all of a sudden you’d be bawling again and calling Kayla who would get really concerned that something actual tears-worthy had happened but you’d have to explain to her that it’s just because you already miss NPH and she’d be all “Good God woman get ahold of yourself.”  I mean, that didn’t happen.  I’m just saying… I could see a scenario like it in which sleep is always the better option.