A One-Way Ticket on the T-minus 47 Day Express; or, Hold the Vomit

It dawned on me this morning, mid-Loofa, that my life at present is a little bit like those last ten clackety-clackety-clackety feet of rollercoaster track before one goes hurtling over the pinnacle: the assumption that it's going to be just as fun as it looked from the corn dog kiosk, the hypothetically secure knowledge that it's the only ride you really wanted to go on and certainly the only one that was worth the three hours spent in the burning sun with shrieking children and hairy-backed men and heavily hormonified teenagers, the precursory excitement at the thought of everyone getting out when it's all over and screaming about How Fun It Was and rushing to the video monitor to see their expressions during that fourth big drop, the too easily-forgotten security of the familiar sweaty hand gripping your own under the safety bar - - and the somewhat pathetically sincere hope that you don't pass out, have a heart attack, or experience multiple episodes of vomitous along the way.