Fine.
I’ll wear the tacky red ruby slippers
if that’s the price of admission.
I can’t sing, but I’m sure there’s a recording somewhere— I’ll lip-sync with conviction.
I’ll follow the yellow brick road, but if the lion, the straw man, and the tin man want to tag along, they’d better keep their distance.
I already manage enough crazy, fragile, emotional projects in my life.
The Wicked Witch? She’d meet her match.
And flying monkeys don’t scare me— I’ve raised three kids. Try surviving them for a week.
So yes.
Bring it on.
When I reach the Emerald City— that giant green castle filled with strange people (like a mall, but louder)— I won’t be looking for wisdom or the man behind the curtain.
I’ll be looking for the spa. The deli. And better-looking shoes.
And when I’ve had my fill of strange magic and far-from-reality relief, when my nervous system exhales, when I remember who I am—
I’ll return on a broomstick, chanting:
I am ready to come home.
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