Out of my Comfort Zone

I ventured to a new McDonald’s the other day.  It was lovely, truly lovely, but I didn’t stay.  I wanted to sit alone and work from my laptop.  Unfortunately, the seating was very similar to that which I’ve encountered on my travels to Europe; there are one or two very large tables, with only a few booths scattered along the edges.  This is great for a family of fifteen that would typically be unable to sit together in a fast food restaurant;  but it’s hard to imagine a construction crew wanting to lunch at the same table as a mom with a bunch of kids, and vice versa.  Most of us prefer to wallow in our personal space, and enjoy the semi privacy afforded by separate tables.

I’m relatively outgoing, and can pretty much start a conversation with any living soul that crosses my path, but I feel uncomfortable seating myself at a table that’s occupied.  Even worse, what if I manage to have my own little section of table, but then someone with a nasty cold, or severe case of gas, chooses to sit next to me?  When in Rome, I do as the Romans do; but once home, I fall into the safety net of familiarity.

Traveling has stretched me out of my comfort zone in many areas.  Actually, “stretch” is a mild word.  Sometimes, I feel more like a boxer getting knocked out of the ring.  I find myself staggering back to the center, and then bam!  I’m against the ropes again.

Once I had to take one of my children to a “hospital” in a third world country.  Bam!

Another time, when I was seven months pregnant and had a 15 month old on my hip, I found myself navigating alone through a Nicaraguan airport.  Bam!

And I don’t speak Spanish.  Double bam!

I’ve had to be separated from hubby due to rioting in Central America.

Another time, the kids and I were caught up in a swelling crowd of protesting Neo-Nazis in a subway station in Berlin.

Then there was the time I skidded headlong towards a sewage ditch.  It seemed every Haitian in a ten-mile radius was laughing at the sight of my skirt over my head, and my big mama panties in full view.  Bam!

In Belize, I had to make a decision about whether or not to kill the tarantula blocking my path to the front door.  On the one hand, there was a tarantula blocking my path.  On the other hand, at home he’d be worth forty bucks!   (In retrospect, I’d pay forty bucks to hear that satisfying crunch again.)

I have repeatedly made a fool of myself by attempting to communicate in languages I can’t speak. (Bam translates the same in all languages.)

I have dragged my children through jungles, foreign cities, and scary neighborhoods.

I have eaten questionable foods that, at one time, would have never crossed my lips.

I have been splattered with someone else’s blood, and had no way to wash for several hours.

I have driven cars across countries in which I could not read the street signs.

I jumped off a cliff.  (Which my children say effectively eliminates me from being able to ask, “If all of your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?”)

I have attended churches with worship practices that are completely unfamiliar to me, and occasionally involve live chickens.

I have chased critters out of hotel rooms.

I have seen naked people going about their daily business. I am a prude.  Bam!

On numerous occasions, I have been forced to face my severe amphibaphobia.

I have been in close proximity to illness and diseases that made me want to run to the other side of the earth, but I stayed.   And prayed.

I’ve spent ten hour flights wedged between people I’d never met.

Time and again, I have been pushed, pulled, tugged, and towed outside of my comfort zone, but now, I am home.  So, please, don’t ask me to sit with strangers at McDonald’s.