Nightmare before the Museum

I'm finally doing it. I've been in Paris two weeks, working on my strength, endurance, foot callouses, and ability to stand for long periods, and I think it's time. I don't feel ready, but I think it's time. Because really, I don't think I would ever feel ready. In the way that people who want kids but haven't always known that they wanted kids because without kids their lives would be meaningless empty voids forever...in the same way that those people might never be truly "ready" to have kids, but at some point they just need to dive in, and so they do....in that same way, I think it is time. So with trepidation, and the knowledge that I am embarking upon an endeavor more tasking and arduous than I could possibly comprehend at its outset, it is in that way that I am going tomorrow.....to the Louvre.

And before I end this post, I should mention, that in the town where I grew up, a very very tiny town, in a remote metaphorical corner (for really, it's kind of in the center) of America, there is a tiny tiny art museum. This was the first art museum I ever went to, probably when I was about 13. I loved that place, and still have fond memories of meandering inside its two rooms. Its TWO ROOMS. Its TWO SMALL ROOMS. My first art museum is in fact smaller than most houses, even houses in crowded cities like San Francisco. And somewhere inside of me, I carry a tiny little two-room museum. I feel as if I were a small origami creature set at the foot of Mount Everest.

And so tonight I go without wine, I have swallowed my vitamin packet, I go to bed early and set the alarm, I repeat a mantra of lovingkindness towards myself. Tomorrow, I will start the morning with a protein-laden breakfast of eggs, yogurt, an apple and coffee. I will bundle myself before leaving the apartment in coat and scarf, hat and mittens, with the love and attention which I would bundle my imaginary child on its first day of imaginary kindergarten, and I will make my way, timorously, to the Louvre.