If Dallas’ plane is on time (something this particular flight route has only managed to do 56% of the time in the last couple of months, but my fingers are crossed), at this moment in 19 days, we’ll probably have been home from Atlanta for a couple of hours. Maybe he’ll be trying to stay awake. The point is, it’ll be the first time we’ve seen each other in 221 days, if my calculations are correct.
It feels like the days are dragging by, much like they did when he left for Romania. Back then I was thinking a lot about how it had only been four or five or six days since I’d last seen him, and that it could be another year before he was home. That was before we knew he’d be able to come home on his semester break.
At this point, time is moving way too slowly for me. I want it to fly by. I want Dallas to be home. We didn’t get to spend either of our birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Year’s together, and we were apart on our anniversary as well. However, he’ll be home for Valentine’s Day, which is pretty neat, I guess (and four days before that, it’ll have been a whole year since he asked me to marry him, so he’ll be home for that too). We’ve got a trip to Auburn planned, we’ll probably go to Atlanta, and it’s likely we’ll go over to the east side of the state to go visit family while he’s home as well. I’m pretty excited.
But first, he’s got to get home. I’ll probably treat myself to a cup of coffee as I wait in the international terminal, just so I’ve got something to do with my hands. I’d be interested to see what the pedometer app on my phone says after I get done pacing in front of the arrivals board, looking for his flight number. And yeah, I’ll probably cry in the airport. Except this time it’ll be because I’m happy.