This was so much easier when no one read them, but some of you actually read this schlock for some reason.
A long time ago, in a galaxy called Detroit, in a small bedroom in the home of my parents, I started a tradition. It’s a stupid, selfish tradition, but I was stupid and selfish when I started it. I write every year on my birthday.
Yes, it’s my birthday, and no, I don’t care. I know y’all are going to feel like wishing me happy birthday, but don’t feel obligated. There’s never really been anything happy about my birthdays.
I’ve never had a great birthday. I have had some that haven’t been entirely disastrous, but those are rare. Highlights of birthdays past include a tornado, sexual abuse, second and third degree burns when my mom accidentally dropped my hot-out-of-the-oven birthday dinner in my lap, my dog getting run over by a truck, being thrown into a metal door by an abusive monster during my birthday party and watching everyone politely gather their belongings and leave me there as I bled from my head once again, and a couple of car accidents.
That’s not a very good track record. This is why I tend to hide on my birthday. I keep my head down and count the minutes until it’s over, hoping there won’t be any arrest reports or emergency room visits. A birthday without needing stitches is a good birthday. If I can make it through the day without injury to myself or others, I consider it a win.
This morning, I was going to call in sick, but I forgot. I plumb forgot that it was my birthday and I was going to take the day off. I didn’t even realize it was my birthday until my sister sent me a text about an hour ago. The fact that I didn’t remember is probably why I was able to make it safely to work without incident.
It’s alright I suppose. Male and I were going to take the dog to the dog beach, but it’s an icky day. Gloom is certainly not beach weather. I’m not feeling it anyway. I’m much happier slouching in my desk chair with headphones, hoping to make it through without incident, than being here freezing my ass off:
This year, change is in the air, whether I want it or not. Male only has a couple of weeks left here before he ships off to law school some 18 odd hours drive away. I am not going with him. There is no work for me there.
I am feeling the urge to move, too. I wrote about it a few months back in the post Time To Move On? It’s more than just thinking now; it’s beginning to turn into a plan. If it works out, this will be my last year in Los Angeles. If all goes according to plan, Male might join me there next year. I’m hoping I can convince my best friend to move on, too, but I don’t hold out much hope for that. That’s okay. She’s got her own life here.
I’ve been through this twice before. It begins as just an idea that turns from “well, maybe” to “well, why not?” and before I know it, all of my stuff is packed up and I’m moving hundreds or thousands of miles away. Both moves have been successful in the end; I really do believe I’m better off for having moved than staying where I was.
I’ve lived in California for almost fifteen years. I thought my wanderlust was all done. I thought I wouldn’t feel this listless dread and malaise again. I feel the butterflies in the pit of my stomach that come from a maybe idea turning to why not. I know what is coming. It’s exciting and dreadful and scary and amazing.
For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel stuck anymore. The next year should be pretty interesting.