Yesterday we tried to have a picnic. I wasn’t feeling well, so when John sent me inside the grocery store to get the lunch supplies, I came out with a bag of Goldfish and 2 fashion magazines. That is, once I got past the blockade mulling about the store entrance. What is it about automatic doors that makes people decide “Yes. YES. This is exactly where I want to stand to have a conversation. This is it.” We drove up into the mountains, where John had been biking a few days before and discovered a field he thought would be perfect. Could he remember how to get there? No, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. We drove for 45 minutes on a kidney-pummeling rocky dirt road, through 6 different herds of cattle, and got to what I thought was our destination when I was informed that we had to hike the rest of the way. Angry silence followed.
We laid out our blanket, which John immediately spilled his entire beer all over, and starting shoveling Goldfish in our mouths just as the skies opened up and it began to pour.
“I fucking hate this place,” is what I believe I mumbled at that point, with a wad of goldfish still in my mouth.
It’s a good thing we’re moving back to Boston next month.
Back in February, John started looking into jobs with the FDA. It was an absolute long shot that 1) he would be able to transfer out of Taos this year, as his contract isn’t up until next and 2) that a position in Boston would be available. Granted, it did take 6 months for everything to work out, but work out it did. He got the position, in Boston, and was able to leave Taos early. On top of that, our renter in our condo in Boston has decided to move out, just in time for us to move back in next month.
I don’t really hate it here – well, I don’t hate everything here, I’ll say that much. I think what I was feeling on our failed picnic is a bit of senioritis. The end is in sight, and now it just feels like the long slog to reach it. In truth, I had hoped that we would be able to move around a bit more before we could get back to Boston. It would have been fun to live in California, or the beautiful Pacific Northwest, or Washington DC. But Boston is home, and when the option to go home is on the table and you don’t know if you’ll get another chance, you take it. For obvious reasons, I’m thrilled about this. It means I don’t have to make a 12 hour trip to see my family. It means we can actually put down roots, that all these ideas I have for our future house, virtually my entire Pinterest profile, can actually happen. It means we can finally, finally, get a dog. Some women ache to have children; the only ache I’ve felt is to have a pup of my very own. I coo over a Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier the way I think people expect me to coo over their baby, but what can I say: Children make me nervous. It means we can order Thai food and it will actually be Thai food. I am excited. I’m relieved. But I’m also a little nervous.
I re-read my first entry here. I remember writing that, how excited I was to get out of Boston, to leave my job and to just go see about something else. I figured we’d keep on doing just that, for a number of years. I was excited about it, because it would allow me to keep trying new things and putting off working corporately, possibly forever. But moving back to Boston derails that plan, and I’m finding myself becoming anxious about what to do next. I’m still interested in going back to school, there are still ideas I have floating around for businesses I’d like to try and by all means I can do all that in Boston – but there’s a big part of me that feels like once we move back, I’ll get a job and find myself stuck in rush hour traffic again. I’d really, really like to avoid that. I’m not opposed to working; I’ve been working since I was 14, when my dad drove me to the town hall to get my working permit and I began scooping ice cream for obnoxious children. I like working – I just happen to really like working for myself. Now that I’ve had the experience if doing just that, I’m having a hard time thinking about work in any other way. I’ve been either cursed or spoiled, more likely a combination of both.
So here I sit, in my little office surrounded by towers of boxes and totes, happy to be going home and anxious to not have a plan. Somehow that feeling is so much more exciting when you’re leaving home than when you’re returning to it. We’ve got exactly one month to go before we have to hit the road. One month left for failed picnics, one month left of glorious sunshine. One month left of our adventure. Despite not exactly knowing what to do next, one more month is about all I want to handle anyway. We’re ready to go home.