Somehow I Became A Grown-Up.

I took the interstate, which is quite beautiful, across Vermont. I got excited when I saw signs saying "Moose Crossing - Next 14 Miles" and started scanning the roadsides for moose. I really wanted to stop and take a picture, like I had all the other times I’d seen interesting signs up to that point, but it’s so much harder on the interstate. When you have huge trucks behind you going 75 miles per hour and a rumble-stripped shoulder that’s only 5 feet wide, slowing down to pull off to the side, even for a Moose Crossing sign, isn’t really the best idea.

I was on my way to almost the eastern-most part of New Hampshire, which meant crossing both Vermont and New Hampshire on I-89. I knew the road went straight through Vermont, so I didn’t look at a map before I left Mark’s house, but I did want to see what kind of progress I was making, judging by the towns I passed. I turned to the Vermont page of my big US map. It wasn’t there.

"Is this map broken?" I thought. "Is that why I was able to buy the whole damn book for a
dollar on the streets of New York City? Did they forget to put in Vermont?!?!" Exasperated, I thumbed through each page from T to W. It took awhile since I was still driving at the time (sorry, Mom). The pages were not out of order. The map listings went straight from Utah to Virginia. No Vermont!!

Finally I gave up, feeling cheated that 3 years ago I had been sold a bogus US map, cursing the Puerto Rican peddler who had sold it to me, and dejectedly turned to New Hampshire.
There, cradled against New Hampshire, was the map of the state of Vermont. The heading on the page read, "New Hampshire and Vermont". My map wasn’t broken, my dollar from three years ago had been well spent after all. I took back my curses aimed at the Puerto Rican peddler. And checked my progress across the state of Vermont.

By the time I did, it was just about pointless; I realized that I was nearly to the New Hampshire state line. I crossed over into the new state and continued on to the exit for Rt. 4, which I followed to Rt. 125. I’m developing this awful habit of not looking at the map of where I am gong until I’m already there, which I did again when I was breaching the border of Lee, NH, where my aunt and uncle and cousins live. I had a slight idea that I should follow 125 South, but on the way I saw signs for Lee pointing from another direction, so I followed those. I ended up in a parking lot in an area I thought would constitute "close" to my aunt’s house, and chose that moment to call her. This is how my brain works.

Lucky for me, I was about a quarter-mile from their house and she gave me directions from there. Of course I managed to get lost and ended up down some random dirt road. But eventually I found the house, and not a moment too soon, because I had to pee really bad, and no matter how long and indirect the driveways may be in the country, I will (hopefully) never feel okay pulling off the road and taking a pee break on private property.

The kids weren’t there, they were at Cub Scouts, even the little girl, Emery, so that gave my Aunt Helen and I a chance to catch up. Somehow between the ages of 15 and 24 I passed between those magical voids known as "Child" and "Adult", and in doing so became to be able to hold awesome conversations with people I used to be nervous around. I was so grateful for this years ago, when it happened, and even moreso now, as a guest in Helen’s house for the first time since the age of 13.

I was the flower girl for their wedding, Roy and Helen, but still felt like she belonged to that special realm of "grown-up" that I could never reach until exiting college. Now that we share the same title, "Grown-Up", she and I traded stories, including the tale of "The Loot That Luke Got", the latest yarn that has been making the rounds on my dad’s side of the family, the rumor of what exactly Luke’s mother offered him to cut his hair, which had grown past his ears. According to my brother, Luke got $500, an X-Box, an i-Pod (which now contains much reggae and Tom Waits), and a cell phone. According to Luke, he was only offered $200, but (under the guidance of his older brother, Erik) held out for more, and received only an i-Pod and a cellphone, the latter of which he promptly lost. According to Helen, he had received some other ridiculous ton of loot, and all of it served to add to the recent family lore, which I could listen to forever.

When the kids came home, it was all hugs and loud talking, which I also was missing. Needless to say, Bryce and Emery wore me out. Before and after dinner, in laps around the house, in the driveway, in the basement, in the playroom, in the makeshift cushion fort in the closet, they ran me ragged. I passed out at 10 o’clock, just like I had when I was a nanny in Los Angeles - I always thought that meant I was such a loser then and I still do now.

It was just like being at Mark’s house, except with the addition of an 8- and a 5-year-old. I found myself staring in half-wonder at Emery a few times. Helen and Roy adopted her from Romania when she was just a little toddler. Now, at 5, she astounds me with her English vocabulary and her fearlessness. She makes me wonder so many things. If I, god forbid, got pregnant by accident, could I conceivably not have the child? Watching her jump rope erratically around the basement and feeling a love so intense, I wonder what would have happened if her biological mother had decided to have an abortion, and I can’t bear the thought. With misty eyes, I ask if she wants me to show her how to play "snake".

She hugs me goodnight and asks me if I can stay for "eighteen-hundred-ninety-nine days?" I promise to stay another two, and that seems to be a happy medium. Even now, in Boston as I write this, I get wet in the eyes with missing them.

The next day Helen and Roy took me on a tour of Lee, Durham, and Portsmouth, despite the ugly weather. The kids were excited to hit the unique shops along the main streets of the city, the ones that sell plastic poop and whoopee cushions. We spent about 45 minutes at one, long enough for me to find a button that read, "God Bless America But F*ck The A**holes Who Run It." (The last sentence has been edited for those readers who share this blog with their children, such as Keith and Mark. I am looking out for you.)

We had a pizza lunch, and the arcade machines kept the kids occupied long enough for Helen, Roy, and I to have a great conversation. Isn’t it amazing how children can be entertained for periods at a time by a video game machine they have no money to patronize?

After awhile, we all had the feeling that it was time to move on. Roy went to Runner’s Alley, a store built for just that. Let me just say, Roy, although he must be at least 55 by now, perhaps more, can put me to shame times and times over. He is the healthiest, fittest person I know. He invited me to go running with him the next morning at 5 o’clock. Well, I made it out running one of the mornings that I was there - it wasn’t that morning, but the second - and it was like a scene out of an asthma attack public service announcement! I barely made it all the way around the way around the block when my jaw started to ache and and my breathing got all ragged. I knew I couldn’t even do one loop around then, so I didn’t. Roy kept going, and I walked a couple laps around the block just so the rest of my body wouldn't cramp as bad as my lungs - and when I got back to the house, he was in the basement lifting weights, fresh off running 3 miles! Crazy! Am I the same girl that used to do fitness modeling in New York City? I guess not.... I'm just a heavier shadow of my former self...