a sandy metaphor for moving halfway around the world.

I went to the beach on Monday with Melissa and Sara. 

My usual modus operandi when going to the beach is to make myself comfortable with a book and not go near the water. Not because I don't like water, but because I don't like that the water makes sand stick to my feet. The feeling of sand stuck between my toes makes me wince the way someone else might wince if you forced them to wear the itchiest sweater in their closet. It is uncomfortable, to say the least.

But as I lay on the blanket reading my book, the scorching sun right above me, I couldn't help but steal glances at Melissa and Sara as they swam. I began to wonder if the uncomfortable feeling of sand sticking to my wet feet would be worth joining them -- for camaraderie's sake and for relief from the sun. 

And then (perhaps because I was reading I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron), I began to think that if I went swimming it would be a metaphor for my upcoming move to China:

If I could handle sand stuck to my feet, I could handle homesickness, jetlag, etc. The rewards would far outweigh the brief discomfort I would have to endure.

Eventually the girls rejoined me, with dripping-wet hair and sand-covered feet, saying how wonderful the water was that day.

And it was: