Sometimes I want to run away. Just climb in the car, turn the key, and disappear into the proverbial sunset. To start over - or to not start at all.
But I�m a compulsive list maker.
When I have a project, there�s a list.
When I�m going on vacation, there�s a list (almost before the reservations are made.)
When there�s a long weekend, there�s a list.
On yellow lined pads. So I can, with a modicum of a smile, deftly place a line (or two) through each item after it is completed.
Lists must be completed, although, very rarely, I begrudgingly copy the last few items to a fresh page. Mostly because all those crooked black lines annoy me.
Someone once said, in jest, I could never commit suicide because something so important would definitely require a list. And, like a computer caught in a logic loop, there would be no way to cross off the last item.
Tangentially speaking, I don�t mind most of my compulsions. They save me from a multitude of bad habits.
For instance, I have to pay bills on time. So I have to work. Which means I have to keep my job (don�t get me started on the compulsion which requires me to do a GOOD job, even for a lousy boss).
And because I work, I can�t drown my sorrows. Oh, it�s not that I�ve never tied one on. It was pretty much a high school requirement in my day. But I�m not a very good drinker. I always seem to miss that cusp of fun, that floaty buzz between sobriety and vomiting. To be blunt, I usually want to throw up before reaching oblivion.
But back to lists, and running away.
Imagine the list. There are the parakeets who can�t be left and may well arouse suspicion when I try to find new owners. And bill-generating accounts which have to be closed.
I�ll need cash so the bank will have to be visited. And there is a tenant in my house which would leave my heirs in a difficult position. And daily medications with prohibitive costs which leads back to a need to work.
And I really do have some �can�t live withouts� that can�t be left behind � pictures, certain momentos - even if I am abandoning the life they represent. Would it all even fit in the car? I know, I�ll make a list and see.
Packing up the rest for storage would need another set of lists (numbered boxes with a list of everything in each box, sorted by alpha, type, box number, etc � you should have seen what it took to move from a 7500 sf home to a 650 sf space in New York).
You could hardly call all that running away.
If I disappeared without a trace, would it be possible the police might begin to inquire regarding my whereabouts with potential disastrous consequences for my partner, friends or family members?
And how would my dear love feel, if I disappeared like that without a word. How it would hurt him - he who has cared for me so well and so long. He who has loved and cherished me so unselfishly.
So no running away for me. No matter how attractive it sometimes sounds.
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