I have. The first time was back when I wore a pink jacket, possessed a hefty sum of $40 (which I stored in a little square tin), and barely old enough to know the price of a hotel room. I remember my mom handling the situation with remarkable grace. She asked me if there was anything at home that was causing me to want to run away. I said no. Then she let the cautious, practical Veronica do the rest. Since then, I’ve had momentary urges to skip-out on life, usually when I’m in the airport staring at the departures and arrivals screen. I imagine how exciting it would be to spontaneously travel somewhere, without an agenda or expectations.
Sometimes the impulse comes as more of a primal instinct to flee when I just can’t think of what to write about for a literature class essay, or when I’m facing an exam I’ve barely studied for. Needless to say, I’ve frequently considered the option of launching myself out of my life and into the wild countryside of Iceland or maybe France. But I’ve never followed through.
That’s because each time, I always get to the point of realizing I don’t really want to abandon my life. I actually love going to school. I love my friends and the people I get to live with. I love my family and things that are so wackily normal and cliché about my day-to-day, there’s no way I’m going to miss my flight back to it.
I also realize I don’t have enough money to make it anywhere really that notable.