Wow, I was jet lagged a little in Italy but it was nothing compared to what I’m doing right now, which, apparently, is going to bed at four in the afternoon and then waking up at ten, staring groggily at the clock and then falling back into a sweaty, dreamless slumber until three or so in the morning, which has, I don’t know if you know this, become the new seven a.m., in that it is now the time when I wake up for the day. I am most seriously displeased. Also, a little tired.
Yesterday morning at the bright and chirpy hour of 5 a.m. I found myself at the beginning of a three-hour-long rabbit-hole fall into the design blogs and good old Etsy, where I deemed it most appropriate to furrow my brow over which, exactly, adorable gocco print would look best on the walls of the imaginary apartment in Wellington for which I was simultaneously searching on TradeMe. I thought long and hard about whether it would be weird to bring my awesome orange and pink sheets with me when I go back (should I get another bag just for the sheets?) and whether I can restrain myself to sending just one box of books. All this before breakfast, you understand.
And then today I went to the Ballard Sunday Market and I wanted every single morsel of ridiculously expensive hand-aged goat cheese, every sweet Walla Walla onion, every four-dollar cup of organic apricot ice cream. I thought longingly of casseroles, of cunningly arranged pantries, of compact fluorescent lightbulbs. I thought about composting and about iPod speakers. I thought about making my own stock from scratch.
I thought about maybe unpacking, actually. I thought about having a real address and workmates (oh, and maybe some positive cash flow) and regular coffee dates and places to go and things to do that don’t always require the disclaimer “Well, if I’m here…” I thought about going a couple months without getting on an airplane. I thought about just being home, and I guess this is the part where I say “Whatever that means” because of course that doesn’t even make sense to me anymore. The last time I felt at home was five months ago on the other side of the world, and if I do make it back to that other side I won’t be going back to that particular apartment anyway (rain on the windows, the wind shrieking up from Island Bay, sitting cozy on the couch in my yoga pants, chopping vegetables for pasta). Even if everything works out the way I want it to, if a job comes through and the visa goes quick, it won’t be the same. I’ll have to start all over again, no matter where I end up, no matter what happens. I know this. This is completely what I signed up for.
But I am so tired, man. It’s not just the jet lag. I’m running out of steam and need to get back to some sort of normal life, somewhere. I’m a little embarrassed, actually…back when I was conceiving all these plans, I thought I would be able to last a little longer than this.