My mind races. The stream of consciousness isn’t mapped like a river, but diffuses into distributary channels; smaller ideas, retreating from larger ones. I can focus on singular concepts, but I spend more time relating disparate situations.

Four Six days later, having returned from Liv’s, thoughts still make waves. Liv invited me to her yoga class for pussies beginning yoga class. I might be contemplative, but I’m hardly meditative. Breathing is a distraction, requiring too much concentration. It’s hard to think about breathing, when I’m preoccupied with the notion that my balance sucks and I might fall on my ass. It’s disconcerting, sitting in a room with seven hyperventilating strangers. Instead of relaxing me, it adds another dimension to those other thoughts swimming in my head.

I suppose that’s one intent of yoga, releasing yourself from the burdens of distraction and concentrating on inner peace. I’m not ready to give up control of my thoughts, yet. I’m too consumed to go cold turkey.

After the session ended, there was conversing with clients and the conversation shifted to small towns. One woman noted, that few appreciate the quaintness of THEIR small town, and are more smitten of OTHER small towns.

It’s true. My “small town” is more appealing than my sister’s “smaller town”. Liv’s “small town” has far more to offer than mine, and her soul isn’t stirred by her small town, but by a city an hour away. Desires are relative, and contentedness with geography has a grass is greener stigma attached to it.

Happiness as it relates to landscape is relative. I find my small town oppressive and seasonally impaired, but there are 40,000 others living here who find it delightful, and another 10,000 who want to live here. I’m not qualified to judge their desires, and wish them well in getting what they need. It’s reminiscent of the matrioshka nesting dolls, there are always hidden layers lurking beneath the whole.

This week, I am less consumed by location and more consumed by smaller, inconsequential details. If I can’t make life work here, under these circumstances, how can I really expect it to work in a new location, with new problems, fewer friends, and culture shock?

I’m angry, and part of me would rather simmer in it, furrow my brow, and throw a raw egg at the golden retriever that’s hunching to take a crap on my lawn. You’re right. It isn’t the damn dog’s fault. It’s his owner, in her two hundred dollar running shoes and Chanel shades who is carrying her cell phone instead of a plastic bag to curb her dog. If I throw the egg at her it’s assault. If I throw the egg at the dog, he sprints away mid-pinch, and I get to watch her step in or maybe slip on fresh dog shit. Who says adult’s don’t have imaginations. Maybe vindictive imaginations, but it’s still imagination. (Dog’s constipated, now it’s someone else’s problem)

Right now, I’d rather be indignant, but I’m getting distracted. I’m working in the kitchen because the light is good. It spills in through the windows leaving dappled patterns on the tile from the silhouettes created by the holly trees outside. It has a fluidity to it, with the patterns shifting ever so slightly each time a stray breeze dares to infiltrate this oppressive heat.

I hear the gentle whir of the air conditioning unit outside, but that doesn’t compete with my attention as much as it cloaks me in empty white noise. The kids next door are screaming obnoxiously. But at least they are screams of joy. They are splashing about in the swimming pool, immune to the heat, while the adults pay obligatory compliments to the newest, ugliest pool house in the neighborhood. Like the ac, the screams of excitement eventually blur into the background.

The sound I can’t tune out, is the gentle snoring of the four-legged furry one laying at my feet. Devoted, he spends his days napping wherever I spend my days contemplating. It’s difficult for me to maintain a closed fist grip on my anger, when he’s rubbing against my leg, or head-butting my shoulder. House pets may be deprived of souls, but they aren’t without conscience, compassion or affection.

I don’t want to be the angry one, the hurt one, the scorned one, or the bitter one. I would rather be the thoughtful one, the adventurous one, the creative one, the foul speaking one and the compassionate one, but first I have to get about the business of exorcising those other assholes. It isn’t enough to chase them away and buy time. Until they’re vanquished, I’ll be stuck in this holding pattern.

My most dreaded aspect of traveling is the return to normalcy. Most people return from a great vacation relaxed and renewed. They sustain themselves with light memories and peaceful simplicity. I mourn the loss of the experience, and long for a geography that does not resemble my own.

I’ve tried unsuccessfully to relocate for a decade (this contributes to my feeling of impending failure). The abbreviated version of my inability to escape is best summed up by saying, I fell in love, and placed someone else’s needs before my own. By doing so, I wonder if I have forfeited my needs being a priority. At the time of union, leaving was a shared goal, then life happened.

Today, I have difficulty believing we share the dream of permanent migration. I fear it is only my desire now. I can live with it, but I resent what I suspect is my mate’s inability to admit the truth, that we are stuck here and this is where he wants to be (this is my suspicion of the truth, I don’t know what he really feels, but I ask). He doesn’t want to disappoint me, so each passing day leaves me wondering if he’s stringing me along, thinking it more humane than out right acknowledgment.

I’ve post-poned writing for days. I resent the negativity poisoning my organs like bile and radiating from my pores. I detest this desire to complain. It feels self-indulgent and weak. I recognize how quickly I increase momentum when I indulge this way of thinking. It prematurely escalates into the “why me” thought process, which I do not believe in, as a matter of principle. “Shit Happens”, on the other hand, is a relevant school of thought.

It’s selfish, but I need something to look forward to, something that brings hope. When I think this way, I worry that my attitude reflects a spoiled, petulant child. This spoiled child has waited patiently through all the reasons we could not relocate, yet. All his kid’s baggage, the graduations, the marriages, the divorces, the optimum sellers market. I’ve helped install, crown molding, painted interior and exterior, pressure washed driveways, resealed decks, landscaped, installed lighting and rewired every f*cking outlet and light switch in this house. My stamina is in decline.

I feel bitter that I can’t ask for what I need, because my partner is subjected to both my needs and his family’s. I would never force him to choose, but I wonder when or if it will ever be okay to ask for or demand what I need? Does exhaustion lead to martyrdom? Why should I try to do the right thing if others aren’t willing? Why is the sky blue?

Regretfully, many of you will find this post more interesting than anything I posted about my activities in Chicago, but such is life…sometimes the journey is more eventful than the destination. In this case, I would say the journey was ulcer inducing and colon wrenching.

Due chronic indecisiveness and commitment issues, I fly standby. One never knows when a family member is going to break a hip or suffer an attack salmonella, so flexibility when traveling is the key. I monitored flights for weeks prior to departing for Chicago, but careful planning can only carry a person so far. Sooner or later, summer thunderstorms, will send planning to hell in a hand basket. Such was the case for my travel intentions.

I began my day, bright and early at 4AM, a wake-up time reserved exclusively for flying days. As luck would have it, the travel overlords smiled on the first leg of my journey and I flew from my regional airport to the busiest airport in the southeast without incident. I had enough time between flights for coffee, so life was good. Or so I thought. I went to the gate to board my connecting flight only to discover it was cancelled due to bad weather. I rolled into the standby list for the next flight, took a train to the new gate, only to watch that flight cancel as well. Two flights (a new concourse and train ride) later I was on my way to Chicago…on the second to last available seat. Four hours behind schedule, but who cares? I made it and I was happy.

I didn’t give much thought to my departing from Chicago to return home. The weather wouldn’t screw me twice, right? Hmmm. Once again, on Sunday, I got the second to last available seat on the flight out of Chicago, which was my only opportunity to make my connecting flight.

I was escorted to my seat only to be greeted by a middle aged bleached blond from Alabama who said,”Thank goodness you’re small. I was afraid they would put a six-four, 400 lb, white guy in the empty seat”. My response, “Uh huh.”

Faking a cat nap seemed like a most excellent way to avoid conversation, so I closed my eyes as the plane taxied from the gate. We taxied, and taxied, and taxied, and the season changed from summer to fall, and the leaves fell from the trees…Then I woke up abruptly, as the engines shut down. Excuse me? Did we land already? The pilot announced, take off was delayed due to thunderstorms. He said we would wait on the plane until further notice, but if the wait exceeded half an hour, we would return to the gate and disembark.

At this point I began chanting to myself, “No, no, no, to the gate we can’t go”. Because I know, if I leave the plane, I may not be allowed to re-board the plane if someone traveling at a higher standby priority than myself decides they want to take this flight. No, no, no, to the gate we can’t go. No, no, no, to the gate we can’t go…

Thirty minutes passed, and much to my relief, we were cleared for take off. Yes, yes, yes, yes! (That’s the sound of me having a premature travelgasm).

We arrived thirty minutes late for my connecting flight’s scheduled departure, but I checked and discovered the departure time had been delayed, and I could still make the flight…if there were seats available. I took the train to the next concourse and waited at the gate for two hours, then the flight was canceled.

Due to forces of gravity requiring shit to roll down hill, I wouldn’t be able to fly home, because Monday’s flights to my destination were overbooked. I looked for an alternative airport close to home, so I wouldn’t have to beg an unsuspecting family member to drive four hours and rescue me from the airport. I found an alternative that would only require a one plus hour commute and booked myself on the flight.

Since my flight left early in the morning, I deemed it practical to remain in the airport all night rather than find a hotel, catch a shuttle, sleep less than five hours, catch another shuttle, return to the airport, wade through the hassle we call security, and crawl back to the gate.

I found a seat with a foot rest and I might have slept a few hours, if it hadn’t been for the pissed woman, who got bumped from her Las Vegas flight. She insisted on chatting with me non-stop. (FYI, I was not giving up my foot rest.) When I pretended to doze off, she called all her family on the west coast to complain about her tragic situation. Yes, she and five hundred other unhappy passengers had been specifically targeted in a travel conspiracy to wreck their flight plans, because airlines love rerouting angry passengers.

After tossing, turning and freezing for four hours, I left my coveted seat for coffee and a danish around 6AM. I went to the courtesy phones to check in for my flight, only to discover sixty pissed-off passengers trying to rebook their flights. After waiting twenty-five minutes for an operator, I discovered my morning flight had been cancelled, and I would need to rebook for yet, another different airport. With the courtesy phone against one ear, I called my husband on my cell, listening with the other ear to inquire, “Now which airport?”. He was excited to hear from me because it was six thirty and he was he was sleeping.

Eventually, I connected with an operator and rebooked my flight for a different airport an hour and a half from home. Still, better than four hours. I made the flight and arrived at my destination at 10AM. Then I waited at that airport for two hours for my spouse to pick me up because he couldn’t (wouldn’t?) postpone breakfast with his parents until another morning (don’t go there). I commenced my journey with a car trip and some mediocre fast food.

After a three hour detour (which I agreed to) I arrived home at 5PM on Monday, twenty hours behind schedule. If I had to do it all over again, I would still do it. The inconvenience was well worth the risk, to spend time with friends.

I’m not sure I would have chosen to write about Blogher, if I had not been asked. I should mention, I did meet all my objectives visiting Chicago, but they had little to do with the conference. I registered because it presented a viable reason to meet Meno and Maggie in person, cleverly disguising my urge to stalk them.

It was a reprieve from ordinary life, spending four days in the company of two brilliant, thoughtful, and funny women. That alone made waking up at four AM worth the effort to travel. We abandon most of the conference festivities for the streets of Chicago, enjoying good walks, good talks, and good food. Nothing compares to lengthy conversations when you are trying to piece together the structure of a person’s character.

Who are these woman who kept me so engaged I didn’t want to sleep? Well, Maggie is kind, nurturing, and she places other’s needs above her own. She’s an exceptional writer. Her poetry transcends my imagination, as I tend to think in pictures rather than language. I find her words stimulating, and inspiring. Listening to her stories, and reading her poems frees my mind and inspires me to draw creativity from my soul.

Meno is a rock. She’s solid, thoughtful and quick-witted. She is comfortable with her sense of self and wears her wisdom like a well-tailored suit. I had to think quickly to keep with her sharp comments, and I enjoyed every moment of the challenge.

On the evening of arrival, I had the pleasure of joining QT, Jen, and Meno for dinner. It was nice low key introduction, before being exposed to the loud, high-pitched, clusterfuck that would define Blogher (from the POV of a self-proclaimed introvert).

I admit, when I signed up I knew I wasn’t interested in the conference. I went to Chicago in hope of meeting fellow bloggers and learning more about the people I was reading. Blogher isn’t really geared toward goal-less introverts like myself.

Of the four sessions I attended, Blogher appeared to be focused on networking, targeting the mommy market, building and maintaining online communities, interviewing with the press, changing your blog templates, and fawning over Amy Sedaris. If you want to expand your readership, earn advertising revenue, or listen to twenty women discuss the politically correct use of the word small, then this is your conference. But if you are an introvert, and prefer small groups, big skies, sand beneath your toes, go to the conference city and avoid the conference.

If your interested in reading about other conference experiences, click here, here, here, here, or here.