I used to harbor this dream of moving somewhere else in some great adventurous storm. Everybody does, I’m sure. Picking up, taking off, just going. Landing in New York (mid-20s), San Francisco (late teens), Los Angeles (last year) and starting a whole new life.
This would not be without its challenges. The older you get the harder it is to meet people, and I’m getting on the older side of easy, but I’d make it happen. Coffeshops, bars, restaurants, and anyway, I’d probably move somewhere where I already knew at least one person. Then we could room together, hang out, reach new ground in our friendship and within our own lives… and we’d probably do yoga or whatever.
I’d find a job where I’d meet a lot of cool people, or maybe some terrible rag that would provide the perfect plot for my first novel, and I’d have the best social life / worst isolation period that I’d ever have experienced. I’d learn to like avocado, or maybe pastrami, and I’d take walks along waterfronts like I’ve always meant to do.
Today I taped up some boxes, which is on my list of least favorite things, and printed out some FedEx labels, which is also no picnic, and worked in silence all day long. Later on, I drove through town with my boyfriend and went to one of my favorite old neighborhood pubs. Then I had to go to the ATM, and I knew right where to find one.
I was smoking a cigarette as I walked to the door, and I thought, you know, being where I am, it’s not so bad to know right where to find both an ATM and a great pub. It’s not so bad when everything’s not an adventure, as long as everything still is.