I have been to Spain for precisely seven days, and will return to the country in question-- to live-- in another seven days. Amongst friends, I deny this information to be a viable topic of conversation. Amongst my family, I am frequently reminded of how much I have yet to prepare, generally resulting in me fleeing from the room. From a personal perspective, I have ignored all ideas of Spanish living, and am still floundering in despondency, ignoring all travel tips, language preparation and have not looked any further into it than booking a hostel for the weekend. Why? Because I am in complete and utter denial.
I must admit-- and I hope not to distaste-- that I have always been a person who survived on luck and chance. Inherently lazy, I spent my A-Level revision periods Facebook stalking, my university seminars making up the second part of an unread text- and somehow, just somehow- managed to attain my placement for a star-studded magazine in Madrid despite having an ugly bout of gastric flu. In this madness of spending my last few years of my life rather lethargically, I have done rather well for myself. However, I do have a confession to make. I am aware that in the seven days time, this mode of living will no longer work. I will have to be eager, enthusiastic, organised, and even more frighteningly, somehow apprehend the skill of successfully reading maps.
Plonkishly attempting to thrive under pressure, I began stage one of the preparation this morning: sort of preparing to pack. Beginning the job my Mother proposed to me six weeks ago, I began sifting through clothing, paper, and accessories, college era to present. Yet again, I admit something not altogether pleasing. For someone with only virtual, bank given pounds in their account, I have a hell of a lot of clothes. Enough to fill a garage, four wardrobes and a chest of drawers, to be precise. I am not exactly sure when, or if, any defining fashion sense has arisen from the ghosts of clothing past. Picking up one bag, it's definitely clear to say I went through an intense navy stripes phase, and thought hanky tops, bright purple gilets and ill-fitting skinny jeans were blessings to my body. I came across photo evidence detailing these more awkward fashion moments, and felt a lump in my throat. Diaries upon diaries demanding organisation were piled up high to the garage ceiling, with vacant spaces during July-September, detailing birthdays of loved and formerly loved ones. On the brink of nostalgic heartbreak, I came across letters from my best friends, being far nicer than anyone should be. And oh my, and the mould. Threatening my once favourite bag and a multitude of cheaply bought pumps, I solemnly swear to forego bulk buying and think before buying yet another animal print t-shirt. Looking through my past, I began to throw away my material memories, aware that I am generally lazy for I reason- I really hate saying goodbye.
Now the actual packing is due to begin, where actually am I? Still writing this blog post, because, my dear friends, that's what DENIAL is. I'll be in touch when I realise I'm on the brink of an emotional breakdown because I don't own a functioning adaptor.
Looking like dappy in Orca-shaped hat courtesy of my boyfriend. Just call me