Driving while ugly crying is not recommended.
Sometimes the tears made it hard to see and the semi-hysterical breathing occasionally hampered my steering abilities. All the while the dark hole feeling in my chest led to some questionable speed decisions. As I zipped by, drivers and passengers taking their standard glance at the passing lunatic turned their faces away faster than usual; I was ugly crying and it was not likely a pretty site.
After a few hours flying past desolate empty corn fields, I felt a bit cried out and a lot tired of the hysteria bit; so I turned the scanner on my car radio on looking for something to sing and cry to. I was thwarted in my pursuit of broken-hearted ballots when a 90’s ‘best of’ radio special came on and every song they played was ‘my jam’ at one point or another. Cranking the radio louder than my ears appreciated and I attempted to out sing the radio and my mind. It was as perfect a moment as it could be.
I was angry at life, indignant at the injustice of the whole situation. A few months ago I met E a tall and handsome man. E who could make me laugh, who loves food as much as much me, and was, at least for a while, a great happiness. E wasn’t supposed to be a thing. I wasn’t supposed to date this close to leaving, leaving for Minnesota, leaving to chase dreams in Spain, but he was is different, so I gave it a whirl. I was dancing to a song in my head, looping around and around the chorus, afraid to break the magic and feel the dream end. E was like a dream.
As any classy lady would, I told E I was planning to leave for Spain on our first date and quickly followed that sentiment with the declaration that I would not, under any circumstance, leave someone behind (it hadn’t worked out so well the first time around). As I watched my PROFEX acceptance status over the last few weeks I let both futures exist, one here and one in Spain. Then, almost two weeks ago now, inscrita became admitada and the song ended. I knew even before I told E about my newly admitted status that this would be our end, what I didn’t expect was to care so deeply that it did. For the first time I strongly questioned my plans to return to Spain, but I could not give up that dream. I convinced myself there had to be an alternative, but in the end E was the more honest person, perhaps the more honorable, he did what I should have done so many years ago and even in breaking my heart increased my admiration for him.
My mom reminded, me as I cried into her shoulder, having safely arrived to MN, ‘its shitty to have your heart-broken, but it is so good to have good men to cry over.’ My heart might still skip a beat when I think about E and I may have had to wash the smell of him out of my cloths, but I am blessed to be sad. I am determined to focus on the admitada, the very real potential of a life in Spain. I am focusing on the dream and little by little the new excitement is beginning to settle in. Spain is pulling me back into her fold again; I’ve left my tears on the interstate; Spain, I’m coming home.