It’s been over a year since my last SwS post – for no good reason (I don’t consider “busy” a good reason) other than a borderline pathological level of procrastination and a complete lack of follow thru.  It’s not that I haven’t written anything, I just haven’t finished anything.   So if you’ve been here before and thought I moved to a remote island in the South Pacific or fell off a mountain (as if I did something that cool), welcome back!  If you’re new here, hi!  Stick around…I might say something profound – or at least make you guffaw at an inappropriate time (stop staring at your phone in the OR, Karen, that blood pressure isn’t going to monitor itself).

This past weekend marked six months since I up and left my SoCal life for a new adventure in Idaho.  Though the actual plan/move took a few months, the decision to move was uncharacteristically spontaneous for someone who suffers from overthought paralysis like me.  Less than 24 hours after receiving a job offer here, I gave notice and set the wheels in motion.  In closing that chapter, I said goodbye to a home that saw more in 3 years than I care to list (I already feel old…that won’t help). I celebrated my 40^thbirthday there.  My best friend flew 3,000 miles to celebrate hers there too.  I toasted new love, and mourned the loss of love at the same kitchen counter.  I abandoned the image of what I thought my life was “supposed” to look like there.  I laughed and cried and consumed far too much wine there.  I tried (and mostly failed) to write so many words bouncing around my head there.  I conquered fears and hid under the covers there.  That house was busy collecting a whole lot of juju while I hurled myself through life with the thinly veiled (I like to think there was at least a thin veil) confidence of a woman on a mission.  Then just like that, it was time to go.

Three days, one massive snowstorm, and 1,123 miles later I pulled into the driveway of my new home.  I’d love to say it was some cathartic, memorable moment but I’m pretty sure I stretched my legs, walked the dog, unloaded the car, and went to bed because I had to go to work in the morning.

In the weeks leading up to the move almost everyone I informed of my plan had the same questions. “Why Idaho?” or  “Do you have friends or family there?”  The answer was always some version of “nope, just taking a chance on the universe” and (almost) always delivered in a tone of voice designed to convey my conviction that everything was going to be just fine, something I mostly believed.  The fact that I’d spent a sum-total of 84 non-contiguous hours in Idaho in my 41 years made that sound a little crazy, though, even if the decision did feel overwhelmingly “right”.  If I’m being completely honest, what I feared most (and maybe secretly hoped for) was solitude. I’m incredibly adept at slowly becoming a social hermit when not encouraged, prodded, or yanked from my shell by a variety of forces.  My couch is my safe space (it may have helped that I didn’t have a couch for the first 5 weeks).  Books, magazines, podcasts, and the ever-present interwebs are fantastic substitutes for actual human interaction – until they aren’t.  My new co-workers are lovely, but are also mostly married with children of various ages rendering them unlikely social companions.  It seems I posses an unintentional resting bitch face that generally precludes meeting people in bars and restaurants (even in a place like Idaho, where people are so friendly I thought I had inadvertently been cast in a Truman Show sequel on my first visit).  Yet 6 months in the universe has managed to validate my leap of faith, not only providing me reasons to get off the couch, but also a small handful of beautiful souls I count as true friends.

I don’t recommend handing these out in bars, though. People are weird. Even in Idaho.

Half a year has gone by with alarming speed and certainly hasn’t been without trials (life rarely is).  Now that I’m finally taking a hot second to reflect and write about it, I can’t imagine making a different decision.  Here’s hoping the next time opportunity punches me in the face I once again have the courage to leap first and ask, “Wait…what the fuck did I just do?” second.  Maybe I’ll even get around to writing about more of it.  But hey, one leap of faith at a time.

On the list of things I’ve rediscovered in the last 6 months: camping. And mosquitos. #worthit

This weekend did not go as planned.  I had one of those amazing “adult” weekends planned.  No, not that kind of adult.  The rare kind that involves having precisely no plans – other than a long over-due gargantuan to-do list.  But none of those pesky social obligations to hinder my determination.  I had lists, I had a plan, in my mind, I was going to get. shit. done.   My mind is pretty pushy about being in charge and my body is generally ok just going along for the ride.  Which is unfortunate because my mind can rarely get its shit together.  If there was a physical manifestation of the way my mind works, it would probably look something like Elaine dancing on Seinfeld.  But I was ready.

I went to bed Friday night with the lingering remnants of a cold I’ve been fighting all week and woke up Saturday morning with a chainmail blanket draped squarely over my soul.  I wasn’t sick, per se, but I could barely move.  I dragged my determined ass out of bed to feed the dog (lest I be eaten alive in my compromised state), and immediately fell back into bed, promising myself just a little more rest…then I’d conquer the world one errand at a time.  I woke up 4 hours later with a splitting headache and clear evidence that something alien had died in my mouth.  Either that or I’d taken a decade worth of quaaludes and lived to tell the tale.  At that moment it really could have been anything.  While I was slowly coming to grips with the fact that I was not, in fact, going to be hyper productive, I was not coming to grips with wtf was going on.  I texted a friend who responded with, “Oh yeah, been there.  Your body is pissed.  Hydrate, try to have some food and caffeine to get rid of the headache and go back to bed for as long as you need. Then text me and let me know you’re alive.” I’m not sure I could have argued with her if I wanted to, so I went back to sleep, waking another 4 hours later to feed my dog (again. My subconscious has priorities and survival skills).

Even my 95 lb creature, who would normally be bouncing around the room like a Jack Russell on a sugar high the second I showed signs of life seemed to understand.  And the sweet soul that he is, he slept by my side all day and all night, not once waking me even when his dinner was 45 minutes delayed due to my comatose state.

Today was moderately better.  I slept more than any adult should on a given day, but also managed a shower, some reading, and a walk with my most deserving guardian beastie.  Hopefully by tomorrow morning my body will be willing to cede it’s martial law-like grip on my existence and allow me to go to work and function like the somewhat productive human I am capable of being. Thankfully it’s Monday morning (after some pretty important sportsball games, so I’m told), so most people won’t notice if I’m a bit more off than normal.

The moral of this PSA-style post is to listen to your body before it up and stages a coups because when it does, you will lose.  My errands are not run, my bills are not paid, my office is not organized, and a trench is not dug across my back yard (I told you it was an ambitious list).  But I started a new book, got some obviously much needed rest, and had some quality time with my fur ball.  The world probably won’t stop spinning and your pets probably won’t eat you while you sleep (though I’m not an expert in the field of gravitational forces or pet behavior, so I make no guarantees).  And you might even feel better for it.

Happy Sunday night, friends.  Get some rest. Or else.