I never feel like I'm at the proper level of emotion that I should be, concerning major events.

Like saying goodbye. (Unless someone is crying. Other people crying always gets me.) Or leaving a place. The actual physical process of going away does nothing for me.

Although ... well, arrival does. Putting things down, unpacking, settling in, that sort of thing. That makes me bubble, like the kind of bubbles you get when you pour soda/pop, or when you pull beer from a tap. Fast little fizzies, rising and popping in a giant cloud. And then the fizzing – the feeling of being in a new place, of having been released – vanishes. And then everything's settled, except for the occasional tingle, the little sharp differences that make you go, Ooh! I wasn't expecting that!, and you remember that you aren't in Kansas anymore.

I was excited when I got my welcome packet for Peace Corps. That had me in a tizzy all night and the next day. It was akin to what I felt when I got my dorm assignment four years ago. Or getting into the London Program and, later, learning my flat assignment. My stomach about dropped out of my abdominal region. I guess mail does it, too, especially when I've been waiting and waiting to hear about something.

What's getting me now is not Belize – although some sleepy part of my brain is thinking, Wulp, I get to work on my tan for the next 2 years – but the staging event. I have three days of orientation in the U.S. with about 40 other Peace Corps Volunteers. In a hotel. I'm petrified. I've never been in a hotel all by myself before. Especially not a huge one in a giant city. This is a Crowne Plaza hotel. In Miami, Florida. I've only ever roomed alone once, and that was one semester in a dorm that I was quite familiar with and in which I had friends right down the hall. I might have a roommate in the hotel ... they didn't tell me, and I haven't confirmed the reservation yet. But still, I won't know anyone. Even in London, I knew a lot of the people who were going to be there in the flats with me, and one of my flatmates was one of my best friends already.

They had me write up something about how I plan to deal with adjustments. I read a handbook they sent me called A Few ^Minor Adjustments. It talked about the stages of adjustment I'll be facing and what to expect and how, generally, to go about dealing with those stresses. I think I kind of regurgitated what they said and added a few blurbles from "past experience."

And what a friend I have in Past Experience!

But that doesn't change the fact that I'm not really one for anticipating mingling with large groups of unknown people. And I'll be required to do that, for my own good, extensively for the next ... I don't know ... long time ... several months ... thing. It's not so bad when I'm actually doing it. It's convincing myself beforehand that it'll be okay. I know it will. It's just that ... I don't feel like it will. Right now.

And then there's the panic of How It'll Go When It Comes To Doing What I've Been Sent To Do. They warned me about that. Everyone gets it. I look at my résumé and think, That actually looks kind of impressive. But then I think about what the words on the page refer to – the "work" I've done in real life – and wonder how the heck I'm going to get anything important accomplished there, relying on my own drive and resourcefulness. I've also been warned that I probably won't see the proverbial fruits of my labor. Especially since I'm part of a brand new project area. I'm just a seed-planter. Someone else will do the watering and stuff. Someone else will get to watch it grow. And that might not even be for the next generation.

On the up-side, they said that I'll get to see more change more immediately since I'll be in a small village. I'm not completely pessimistic.

Just anxious.

We all are. Finding apartments, getting cars, learning stick, getting class schedules figured out, looking or training for jobs, moving out, ... and shipping in.

It feels like all my life I've been preparing for the next step. They made us write in cursive in middle school because that's what we'd "have to do" in high school. (We didn't.) Preparation will only get you so far. These next months I'll be spending in training still won't get me ready for every instance of shock that Belizean culture will put me through. But this is what I signed up for.

People keep saying to me, "Oh, you graduated? What's your degree in?" It's still strikes me that I'm no longer a professional student. It shocks me that they don't ask, "What's your major?" anymore. Even though they still follow up with, "Are you going to be a teacher?" Except ... now the answer is, "Kind of." I'm so used to saying, "No, I want to be a writer." But that's not quite accurate now. I don't "want to be" a writer. I am a writer. I'm just not published. Yet. Baby steps, right? I'm going to Belize to do Peace Corps for a little while, and then I'll come back, hopefully changed for the better. And in the meantime, I intend to keep writing.

I've often said that I'd like to move out of the country, at least for a while. I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to emigrate permanently. ("Your mom's an immigrant!" – "Yes ... yes, she is.") But despite all my hesitation and fear, I'm going through with it.

I started packing the other day. Well, it was mostly just unpacking and putting the stuff I won't need for the next couple of years in the closet. I'm not quite ready to pack my summer clothes up.