24 Days Left in the ROK.

So. Here we are. July. Arguably the worst month of the year, as an adult (arguably because I assume there are other people in the world with less grumpy outlooks on being hot and sweaty and having to go to work despite being trained for the first 18 years of life that July is Summer Vacation and is not good for anything other than eating popsicles, pretending to read the summer reading list while actually watching Law and Order, and wishing you were back at school.

I have 24 days left of being in Korea. 24. It’s freaking me out a little, I’ll be totally honest. It’s strange, on one hand, because I still have a week and half of classes left, and often I feel like every day is a tiny infinity  of children screaming Ooedehrree! (the Korean pronunciation of Weatherly) that I have to get through before coming home to the quiet of my apartment to try and do as much nothing as possible before falling asleep and doing it all over again.

It’s strange on the other hand because holy shit, 24 days left of living in this country and then I’ll go back to America?!? I’ve already been here a year?!? I can clearly remember the day I left, every detail, including being upset I had to leave my ukulele at home and not being able to sleep the night before, thinking I was going to cry at the airport when leaving my family but not actually doing so, feeling like I was actually only leaving for a weekend holiday and therefore being completely calm, reading Tank Girl at the airport in New York and thinking this was going to be a breeze, and then getting through half of the 12 hour plane ride before falling into an unimaginable sense of panic that would last for, oh, the next two months.

And now I am leaving. Very very soon, actually. I don’t have a job that I’m going back to, and I don’t have solid plans for the future, I don’t really understand what I’ve learned (if anything) in the space of a year, except a smattering of Korean and how to properly roast broccoli. I’m actually scared that I’ll go back and it will be too familiar, that I won’t have been gone long enough for everything to seem different and special and strange. I’m scared that I won’t experience the reverse culture shock that everyone warns about, that I’m actually excited about. I’m truly, horribly, down-to-my-bones scared that I will end up in massive debt and without a job and regretting the decision to both move back to America and of moving away from it in the first place.

And I’m scared that I’ll never get to come back. Or go anywhere else. That this was my one chance to explore.

 

Mostly, though, I’m just excited to eat.

 

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