My passport came today.
Actually, it came yesterday but no one was around to sign for it so it got sent to the local post office that is renowned for being complete fascists when it comes to releasing registered mail and packages. It is so bad, I have my online purchases sent to The Office because once it is in the firm clutches of those crazy ladies at the post office, you have to produce DNA and character references to get it back.
I was shaking so bad when I signed for it. Of course, I had to sign one of those electronic pads that morphs your signature into hieroglyphics. I hesitated. Totally expected crazy lady to take the package back and tell me "No Mexico for you!"
Once I had liberated my mail from Canada Post, I stood at the counter at the post office and tore the package open. Even though I went over my passport application a bazillion times and had others check it for completeness, I was certain it would get sent back and I would be told by some faceless government mucky muck that I suck at filling out applications and to try again.
I opened the package slowly. Ohmigawd its not in here. Ohmigawd. Ohmiwait... that looks like the pages of a passport. Ohmigawd. It is here. Ohmigawd keep your shit together girl and get outta here.
I buried my head into my chest and bolted out of there, stopping briefly at the ice cream cooler (there was a ledge there for me to put my bag on... I wasn't even thinking of the Haagen Dazs) to check and see if the government sent back my I.D. I had to very reluctantly sent to them because if they had not sent it back, some poor bastard on some customer service email account was going to get a snot-a-gram, the likes of which have never been read or felt. O.C.D. makes you twitchy sometimes. This was a sometimes.
The I.D. was there. And the passport was still there too. Keys and phone in the right pockets? Yes. Good, we can go now. Effing O.C.D. kicks my ass all the time when it comes to things like this.
At home. Sofa. Dump work bag out looking for package with passport in it. Inwardly remark that my passport photo looks like a proper mug shot of a lesbian with bad hair and how nobody is going to let me in their country when they compare that with the live and in person me.
Then it hit me. I can go anywhere. That thought alone made me weepy. It was bittersweet. All that time all those years ago Captain Celery told me I needed a passport, that it immediately opened the world up... I get it now. You were right and I understand it now. Sorry I doubted you.
Little secret, just between you and I. I am a kid from the ghetto who only ever dreamed of going to other parts in the world. When I was growing up, we were lucky enough to be able to afford the gas for the thirteen hour drive to my grandparents' place every summer. I travelled a bit in Canada as an adult but never needed a passport. Never thought I would. Machu Pichu, India, Nepal, Tibet, Italy, Greece, NYC, Scotland, Ireland, and the Louvre in Paris had always been places I read about but had always seemed so far out of my reach.
Now I can go there.
Bittersweet.
Oh you may think I'm a fool for saying it out loud and that is okay. You may have held a passport for years and think I'm just being a ridiculous, sentimental fool. Perhaps I am. But think of what that little twenty four page book does for you, especially if you are Canadian.
You can go anywhere.
I can go anywhere.
All those places that I have read about and have dreamt about suddenly got a whole lot closer.
