Countdown.

In exactly five weeks, I will be back on US soil for "good," or at least the foreseeable future, which for me usually means about six months. The reality of leaving Glasgow and Scotland is starting to hit me hard; this is now my home. This is the base of my existence. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that when my plane takes off from Glasgow Airport on December 12th, I won't be coming back. Not for a long while at least.

For all of Glasgow's flaws -- the weather, the grime, the crime, the neds, the weather, the social issues, the weather, the weather, the weather -- it's still a fantastic city, with fantastic character, and people who are maybe some the best I've ever come across. I cannot stress or underline enough how much I love Glaswegians. And Scots. But really, Glaswegians. They're a special breed, and my heart's breaking thinking about how five weeks, I suddenly won't be around them anymore.

Yes, this move is my doing. Yes, this is the responsible thing. I realize that. But it doesn't change the suck factor. Which is high. Not living in Glasgow is going to suck.

Obviously there are big pros to moving back to the States. Like seeing my family. Seeing my dog. Not having to buy three separate transatlantic tickets for three must-attend 2010 stateside weddings. Being able to buy things (any things!) after 6pm. Having an efficient banking system. Or an efficient anything system. Being able to eat good (or any) Mexican food on a regular basis. Being able to buy Goya products in the grocery store. These are all pluses. And I am looking forward to all these things.

I'm really trying to prepare myself for the reverse culture shock. When I was ten, and we moved back to the States from Yorkshire, I remember it lasting for a few months. But I was ten; as a person still in her late 20s, I should have a better, more logical grasp on what's going on in my head. Hopefully, preparing myself for it will help ease it a bit. But I know that it won't be easy. I may complain tomorrow morning when I leave my flat, and walk out onto a street lined with broken bottles of Buckie, but damnit if I'm not going to miss those stupid numbered bottles when I'm gone.