I call bullshit.
Change is annoying. Change is hard. Change hurts. Change is EXPENSIVE.
I am moving from my beloved New York City to a Middle Eastern country. Qatar, to be precise. And I feel like I’m going to pass out at any given moment. It’s like floating in a room full of water with only a foot of space left before it touches the ceiling. The panic builds as the water rises, but you insist on staying calm, because 1. panicking doesn’t help shit and b. you still have air, so cool it, bruh. I’m pretty much waiting until it’s time to panic. Which, I’m sure, is worse than actually panicking.
I am ecstatic, nervous, happy, and miserable lately. I’m talking Molotov cocktail level unstable. I’ve become this giggling, fiery, snapping, wailing bomb. Totally what you want at parties and happy hour. Just add alcohol. At night, I lie awake like a damn zombie, surrounded by all the crap that has magically appeared in my bedroom. This has to be some Hogwarts type sorcery, because there is no way in hell I intentionally accumulated all this shit. I can’t sleep because I can’t stop thinking of all the things I have to buy/do/say/ask/read/pack/move from one side of my bedroom to the other. Seriously, I’ve spent the past week moving a container from the window…to the wall. It’s like a Japanese rock garden in here. But without the cool rake and the zen. All chaos everything.
I keep telling myself I’m not ready even though I still don’t have a barometer to measure my level of “Bring It, Bitches”. I don’t even know what “ready” feels like. So plan B is to return to my old style of winging it. Like, Dallas BBQs size wings. Back to my days of not over-packing because I figured I could just buy what I need when I get there. Why can’t I do that now? Is it because 30? Fuck that. Throughout my life I have amped up my courage and gall by defiantly retorting “I do what I want”.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing.