Relocation, Relocation, Relocation...

Okay... So it's official. I'm moving again.

• Land of coffee, microbreweries, waterfalls and strip clubs.
• Land of clouds and rain, temperate forest, rose gardens and the dangerous weed, wild blackberries.
• Land of organic, vegan, locally made mattresses, shoes, pottery and doodads.
• Land of competitive gardening and social pressure to accurately separate your composting, recycling and garbage disposal.

And I am thrilled. Half the cost and pretension of Seattle... the big sister city. Half the cost of NYC, in both time and money. I may get 2 hours a day back in just commute alone.

The Mister and I are doing the move together. His parents have been generous and given us their old Volvo (xc90 for you nerds out there). I have given my 2 weeks notice to my current employer. I am training my replacement as of tomorrow. It is another transition.

Those who know me know that transitions are the hardest for me to handle. I just want the end to be ended and the beginning to have begun. And if you are thinking "joy in the journey." Save your breath.

If we were to break down my essential stress in life, it is in the inability to enjoy transition. Read The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. You'll know what I'm talking about. I have compared myself to Milo in that story since I first read it. If my blogs were a novel, the comparison would have it's own chapter, or running theme... since I can rarely stick to a single topic for an entire chapter.

For example... the opening paragraph.

"There was once a boy named Milo who didn't know what to do with himself - not just sometimes, but always. When he was in school he longed to be out and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he thought about coming home and coming home he thought about going. Wherever he was he wished he were somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why he'd bothered. Nothing really interested him - least of all the things that should have."

While that is a vast exaggeration of the current situation... It is stunningly accurate. While I find many things interesting and amusing... probably more amusing than interesting, I do spent an awful lot of time contemplating the places I am not.

• The career I don't have and didn't make here.  
• The city I don't live in. 
• The boxes that aren't packed. 
• The road trip that hasn't started. 
• The job that hasn't finished. 
• The car that's not packed. 
• The house that hasn't been found. 
• The job that isn't mine yet. 
• The new bosses and friends I haven't met. 
• The adventures that should be had. 
• How to most effectively and efficiently adventure. 
• The amount of stuff that's not going to fit in the car. 
• Where the stuff that we're taking is going to go in the house I don't have yet that I will be paying for with the job I don't have. 

When I get into this mode, I absolutely must isolate myself from everyone and everything around me so I don't either 1) boss everyone around or 2) get anxiously depressed.

Like right now, I have been banished from the kitchen by Mister...   because I am begging to pack some of his boxes for him. Just to ease the transition. A boxed packed is one less thing that hasn't occurred yet. One minute closer on the SLOWLY ticking clock of transition.

Now let's be realistic here. All this prep is happening... I am concentrated so much on the motion of getting us out there, that once I get there, I will be absolutely confused and lost. I will turn into that one girl who moved into your fourth grade class from Somewhere Else and never hesitates to correct her peers or her teacher with the sentence that begins a little too loud and a little too snooty, "Well, where I am from..." I will become Somewhere Else Girl and everything won't be New York City. And everything won't be Idaho. As negative as that can be seen... Thank GOD everything won't be New York City and everything won't be Idaho.

It is exhausting. The contrast and compare. The noticing. Believe me, I wish I could just not notice. I can control myself and not comment. But that doesn't mean that my mind isn't reeling with...

"New York is so much more (adjective)."
"Portland has much nicer (nouns)."
"I miss how easy it was to (verb)."
"I can't believe how nice it is to (verb) again."
"The (noun) is/are so much cleaner here."

 It's like comparing sisters, friends, people...   Prettier, taller, more outgoing. While I realize it's just noticing traits... it's also this rapid fire judgment and quantification that I have honed with precision... like a snarky and observant social sniper.

I have felt this way before. Sophomore year of college. Can't things just be?... without having to be more or less than anything or ____-er or _____-est. Good or bad. Loved or hated. Just... be...

If there has been anything I have learned in New York, it is that there are as many different truths about one thing as there are people thinking about it. And to be polar in any way, to qualify it as Good or Bad, does two things...

1) Isolates you from those that don't agree with you.
2) Gives you an invitation to the party of those who do agree with you.

So polar gives you a place to be. And a place not to be. And a solid direction. A sense of belonging as long as you fully commit to the truth.

But you know what... Sometimes I like the fence... and I'll sit on it until something moves me enough to change that.

I remember once berating myself via blog for being a fence sitter. And how you can't just sit directionless in your own life. You need to pick a path and go down it. I still feel that way about motion... motion in life. Pick something. Do it. Go for it.

And while I may be feeling a little aimless, waiting for that *Aha* or that ambitious moment when the next life altering decision is made... I am going to pick a direction and go it until it is no longer the direction to go.

I'm not sure there is a theme through all of this rambling... But it sure seems like angst over the place I'm not, and angst over the place I will no longer be, has left me feeling pubescently moody and restless.

Ready or not Portland... Here I Come.

T-minus 8 days,
Nanette