Comfort Zones: A Modern-Day Love Story
Let me start out by saying this, I hate traveling. I hate it with every fiber of my being. Due to my panic disorder and the symptoms that come along with it, it makes me fear for my life whenever I’m out of my familiar surroundings and comfort zone, so why wouldn’t I take a trip all by myself to a strange city I had never been to?
For me, I live a life pushing the envelope. If I’m not always challenging myself, then what is this all really for? Is it scary and exhausting to live this way? Yea absolutely, but if I sit in one place doing the same thing over and over again, what am I learning? How am I bettering myself? Quite simply put, I’m not. Being riddled with anxiety and then depression for the majority of my life, I’ve had to fight my own mind, body, and soul in order to experience a normal life. There’s a barrier I have to fight through before doing something a ‘normal’ person would do (but what really is normal?). I will expand on this fight in a later blog post, but this one is about the first time I took a leap into fear and came out another woman on the other side.
It was twelve years ago that I was sitting in the office of my then therapist. I told her I had been having a rough time and I just needed to get away and take a chance and fight my fear of expanding my experiences in life. Her response? “So then do it.” I looked at her and thought, “I just might”. That same day, I went online and booked a trip to New Orleans, Louisiana, without telling anyone I had done it. I gave my parents an ultimatum, you can either drive me to the airport in a week or I will hire a shuttle to come and get me and I will get myself there. Needless to say, they weren’t too happy…
One week later, I was at the curb of my terminal at Philadelphia International Airport saying my goodbyes to them, feeling the pit of anxiety in not only my stomach but also my mothers. This was pretty out of character for me and at the time I think they had to just accept that I was growing up and needed to make my own decisions. That didn’t stop my mom from talking one of my cousins to making the trip down later on to just be with me. Typical Mom!
Before I knew it, I was walking through Louis Armstrong Airport and catching a ride to my hotel. I checked in and the rest is kind of history. I explored the city for the next few days, ate alligator, drank hurricanes, enjoyed pop-up jazz ensembles on the street, and took in the beauty of the southern willow trees, my favorite! It wasn’t until the last day I had taken a walk down one of the centuries-old streets, shopping in adorable boutiques and asking where the real New Orleans culture could be found. Bourbon Street was just not my scene. Some very lovely ladies in one of the boutiques wrote down a few jazz clubs that could be found on or near Frenchman Street, where apparently the jazz clubs with all the New Orleans culture and soul could be found.
At about five o’clock that evening I was in my hotel’s shuttle heading to the first club on that list, The Spotted Cat Jazz Club. When we pulled up I couldn’t believe where I was. It was kind of run-down and dilapidated. However, I was trusting the process on this one, so I got out and went inside, sat at the bar and ordered myself a drink. The bartender, Curtis, with his bald head, mustache, and fedora, was one of the sweetest people I remember meeting down there. He asked me questions and kept small talk going until the band that was playing that night started. Not quite an hour later, the warm, blinding New Orleans sun setting behind the band that played in front of the large front windows, watching strangers walking by along the street. I suddenly looked over to my left towards the adjacent window and saw three gentlemen, around my age, walk past and into the club.