I am having a hard time feeling like The Real Me right now, since The Real Me thrives on routine and nesting and eating the exact same thing for breakfast every morning. But 2011 has offered no rest for the weary, and no predictability for your truly.
The past few months have been a rough go for The Real Me.
The Real Me likes walking 11 miles a night after work by herself. The Real Me likes having all of her clothes hanging neatly in the closet. The Real Me likes a balanced checkbook and a good night’s sleep. The Real Me likes home-cooked meals. The Real Me likes independence. The Real Me likes quiet moments and clear skin and a big glass of water. The Real Me likes to be home, wherever I have most recently dubbed it.
After weeks and weeks of travel, I am home today. I am home tomorrow.
And then on Saturday, I am moving all of my stuff out of my home and into a storage unit, and becoming homeless – again.
It’s only for a season, and there are a lot of very good and valid reasons that I’m doing this. It’s the right choice, and I have to remember that, like many of my seemingly manic decisions, I am, oddly enough, choosing it.
But The Real Me is just so damn tired, and hasn’t packed a thing, and will stay up all night tonight and tomorrow to pack my home away into boxes – boxes that I do not yet have. The Real Me will cry and swear before it’s all over. The Real Me will live uncomfortably, and pray that she doesn’t wither away in the midst of it all.