The plane I'll take home just pulled up to the gate. I don't know why I'm nervous about going home. The cats will be better taken care of than they were over Thanksgiving thanks to Lesley and Brandon's collective help. I made a list and packed everything (I think). My plane is on time (so far). And I'm looking forward to seeing everyone again: Mom & Dad, Heidi, Grandma, my various aunts, uncles, and cousins. And yet... I don't feel quite like myself at home. I've had three different conversations about this lately. I play a different role in my family back in Westmoreland than I do in my life in Chicago. My real life. I'm the comic; the one who leads the exciting life; the one with the city edge. And that city edge needs toning down apparently. My friends laugh about this "city edge" because to them, I'm the country-girl. Just call me Sybil.
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When I was sitting at gate G1B, an army boy from Mississippi sat two seats to my left. I say boy because I think he was younger than me. He chatted with an elderly gentleman behind him, leaning an arm over his seat to make eye contact. His thick southern accent, his camouflage, his crew cut, his clear bright eyes. All American Boy. Iraq to Kuwait to Chicago? to Jackson.
A haggard looking woman with scraggly hair approached and interrupted. Her son couldn't come home for Christmas. He would come home in January to visit. "Thank you for your service," she said. "Merry Christmas."
Makes you feel silly for typing about anything else. Merry Christmas.
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