Ack!!!!

Well, I have to admit, it's finally hit me that I'm leaving for Spain in a week and I'm not coming home for four months. I'm excited as anyone could be but panic is slowly starting to creep in, mostly just at night when, of course, I can't do anything about it.
Last night I couldn't sleep, because I started thinking of all the stuff I would have to clean before I could even START packing. Then I started thinking about what I wanted to wear on lunch on Friday, which, coincidentally, has nothing to do with my trip to Spain. But that got me started on all the things I have to do before I can leave, which is never pretty. Too many responsibilities...when did I become an "adult?" I'm only 20, for goodness sake.
So, like any youthful, adolescent-type individual, when I start to panic, I blame my mother.
My mother and I happen to be champion worryers. We can take any situation, from flying around the world to driving to the book store, and find something to worry about. And if that weren't bad enough, we then proceed to completely blow the entire situation way way way out of proportion.
In this case, I am flying to Madrid on British Airways frequent flyer miles. Therefore, I have to go through the now infamous Heathrow Airport, which means that I have to go to the airport sooner, take less luggage and leave my juice box behind...I have to admit that the problems with this didn't really seem that big to me, but yesterday my parents revealed just how freaked out they are by this by offering to pay a couple extra hundred bucks to reroute my flight so that I fly direct.
Direct, and so that I arrive before noon. As is, my current flight (which I refuse to change, being a hard-core BA fan) lands at precisely noon. Which is when the designated GW shuttle leaves the airport for our hotel. Anyone who arrives after 12noon must find a taxi and bravely make their own way to the hotel. This is supposedly a really easy routine and the cost isn't a big deal, cause the university will reimburse you. Unfortunately, I happen to have the amazing and unfailing ability to get lost anywhere and everywhere. Why, just last Sunday a detour in my usual route caused me to be 40 minutes late to church (I drove around near a corn field for 20 minutes. I still don't know where I was). Even more unfortunately, everyone seems to know about this incredible talent of mine. So naturally, the thought of sweet, naive me trying to hail a taxi in a foreign country scares the living daylights out of my parents, who, of course, want me to arrive home in December in one piece. Therefore, my dad is supposedly calling a guy from his office in Spain today, who will meet me at the airport and drive me to the GW-appointed hotel.
This guy's name just so happens to be Enrique.
For those of you who don't know the Enrique story, this is a great time to tell it. My friend Andy has this fantastic theory that in late December you will all receive a mysterious phone call from me that will go somewhere along these lines:
"Hey guys! It's ME and I just wanted to tell you that I'm not coming home cause I've met the man of my dreams, Enrique, and we're getting married and I'm going to live in Spain and have little Spanish babies!"
The name has to be Enrique, according to Andy.
And while I'm sure that the Enrique picking me up at the airport is probably 2-3 times my age and married, it can't hurt that the very first person I meet in Spain has the magic name.
Ok well...I guess I could go through my packing list with you, but let's face it, this blog is boring enough. Maybe I should wait to update until I'm actually like in Spain.
Three pairs of jeans, a pair of khakis (oh my gosh, note to self buy khakis), black pants...not the white skirt, that's too summery, note to self buy new skirt...