So apparently, I'm not too good at keeping up with this whole blog thing. Actually, I should say "was not" too good, because from now on I truly do plan on updating this for your reading and commenting pleasure--also for my own catharsis.
If you hadn't noticed the title of this new post, read it now.
Go on.
Okay. Newsflash: this title reflects my life. Possibly a bit of an overstatement, but seriously. My entire life, for better or worse, has been founded on making excuses in spite of what I really might want to do, what my heart has told me to do. An inexplicable dedication to the name of safety and comfort has been my backbone: not applying for jobs out of state for fear of losing relationships, not searching out an area of the world I'd like to live in or visit in lieu of building a foundation in a place where my soul isn't filled because it is the easier option, not keeping up with a simple fricking blog because I have had "better things to do." Let me tell you--I haven't had better things to do. I've remained here, in small-town Batavia (which, by the way, would be a great place to settle with a family later on in life; I'm just not there yet) where opportunities lack for free-spirited, lost souls such as myself, and where everyone knows everyone else's name.
Why have I stayed? Well, if we go back to the "beginning" of my journey--or what seems like the beginning-- I remained here for love. I know, I know. That's a no-no.
But is it, really? I mean, sure, I was living at home after college, dating a guy that I met online for about 6 months, and was going to move to Saratoga to be closer to him. And sure, I simultaneously was working at a local pub where I met a stunningly handsome guy with bright blue eyes and a great smile. And sure, that changed my mind about everything. I was donezo. My heart was in my throat. I didn't move. In some ways, I guess, I also didn't stay. Regardless, I was 100% smitten. Batavia became my home at that moment. Come to think of it, that thought became clear probably the next morning after I was cured of a terrible hangover.
But would I be writing this blog, the same one I wanted to start years ago and haven't kept up with for over a year, without this happening? A little backwards, I know, but I'm a believer in things happening for a reason and soaking every little lesson you possibly can from those same things.
Without meeting blue eyes, I would have never stayed in Batavia. I wouldn't have had a loving, explorative, eye-opening relationship with someone I consider to be a best friend. I wouldn't have made friendships here, built connections, bonded with the athletes I would soon coach, or earn my first teaching job at a rural school nearby. I also wouldn't have lost that same job, which destroyed my self-confidence and jaded my views on teaching. I wouldn't have lived on my own, taken care of my own apartment (along with my cat, who is a blog post in and of himself), paid my own bills, struggled like hell to survive. I wouldn't have learned where to buy the cheapest eggs, gas, or lunch special when I'm on the go. I wouldn't have realized that people move in and out of houses like they enter and exit a bathroom. I wouldn't have kept and then quit my job at an Irish pub where my boss treated his employees like garbage; I wouldn't have been in a friend from highschool's wedding. I wouldn't have spent enough time with my Dad on Sundays-- grilling out, eating pizza in, throwing the frisbee, watching Seinfeld, or talking about nothing. I wouldn't have learned to appreciate the teller at my bank who knows me by name, the t-shirt shop owner who is a fantastic businessman, or the cute barista at the coffee shop up the street who asked for my number. I wouldn't know the side streets by name here, I wouldn't get free cocktails at the bar a few blocks away. I wouldn't know how to belong somewhere.
Now, looking to leave Batavia, I aim to belong somewhere else. It is hard to describe the restless feeling that resonates through my bone marrow and behind my eye sockets, but it has always been there. For some reason, I'm not fully happy here. My friends recently told me I've seemed "depressed" the last year, year and a half. I fought that tooth and nail, claiming that depressed people sit on their asses watching Maury Povich and his paternity test results while eating TV dinners for breakfast. I realized though, that depressed can mean just...inherent negativity. Feeling unfulfilled. Unhappy. Something, whatever that word might mean, is absent from my life. As the Dixie Chicks said, perhaps it is simply the "room to make a big mistake." Silly, cliche, whatever--but aren't mistakes the chastised sisters of success?
Right now, my goal is Washington D.C. I have a great, very special friend there, and many others close by that would help me get on my feet. I've been madly applying for jobs while trying to sublet my apartment as soon as possible. It's been an immediate turnaround from a month ago, when I was going to live here with blue eyes in my apartment. I would have been engaged by December.
Maybe all of those things I learned by staying in Batavia don't really matter in the grand scheme of my life; then again, life is one giant domino chain of cause and effect. But, without predicting the future, there is one thing I do know, while sitting here in my apartment, surrounded by folded clothes I don't want to put away in my dresser because they will soon go in boxes, listening to terrible mufflers driven by old people drive by, and watching Barbara Walters on The View in my pajamas: I won't find out what my wouldn't have knowns mean until I learn to know things somewhere else.
Stay tuned.
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