You’re a big girl now… you’ve got your big girl shoes… running around with your big girl blues…

I’m sitting in my new apartment 1200 miles from everything I’ve known for the past 13 years with the material hints of a life on the East Coast spilling out of boxes all around me.  I signed my lease on a wing and a prayer that my (hopefully) final interview at Baylor will go the way I want it to.  I’m already in a pot full of risky choices and undetonated bombs (that could possibly be duds). 

Two weeks ago I was supposed to head back to North Carolina to gather my belongings and thoughts about this whole process.  I was going to take the time to say my good-byes and do a few last minute visits to places that I’ve held dear.  Baylor called and my plans changed.  Then, they called again and my plans changed.  I was going to be on a plane last Friday in my idealistic little world, but they called one more time for me.  I mean… where else could I work where they pay a college student to take a bear out for a walk on a leash?  I mean, seriously? 

Now I’m here.  Most of my belongings are here.  I’ve realized I have these romantic ideas that I could live very comfortably in a one bedroom apartment.  I’m one person and I really couldn’t even begin to fill up a four bedroom, two story house.  One bedroom apartments sound about the right fit, right?  Somehow I forgot I had a piano.  And a dining room set.  And a desk.  And a love of video games.  And I realized (albeit too late) that a two bedroom probably would have been the best fit.  Such is the stuff of life, though.  Its comfortable.  Once I figure out how to shove everything into its little nook and cranny, I’ll be just fine. 

Its hard to believe I’m here.  I used to sit and wish and pray for time off.  Just a few weeks where I didn’t have cleaning and laundry and yard and grandparent and errands and papers and essays and class and money to worry about.  I had these grandiose ideas that I was going to sit and read for hours.  I would play PS2 and computer games until I’m cross-eyed.  I would exercise and work on my novel and actually get PUBLISHED for once.

I’m here.  I have two job prospects (the other one I’m not so sure I could really do…) and all the time in the world.  I go to the gym, I clean, I drive around and get lost.  I talk to people in Target and at the grocery store.  I actually sat in Target in the cosmetics section and talked to a 40-ish lady for almost an hour about my skin care regime.  (The fun in that statement is the fact that I know nothing about skin care.  Hence why I officially have a friggin sunburn on my upper lip in the middle of January.)  She wasn’t selling anything and I really wouldn’t have bought anything if she had been… I just needed social interaction that badly. 

Finally getting a moment to check my email, I can’t help but feel like maybe I should just go home.  Maybe I should just go back to North Carolina and let this lease go… go back to the house and figure out what I’m supposed to be doing.  Tuck my tail and accept defeat.  I know I’m talking about defeat a bit early, but I interviewed with the Assistant Vice President of Student Financial Services and she had her arms crossed at one point in the interview.  I saw that and got so desperate I actually think I sounded a lot like an encyclopedia salesman trying to sell books to the library.  One of her questions was actually “why would you move away from such a beautiful place?”  Well, lady…sometimes you have to step away to realize how good you really had it.

I ran today.  For the first time since the last time I was really skinny.  Softball doesn’t count as running.  You can feign that you thought the ball was being passed and stop at second.  Or you could hit it straight to the first baseman like I did 95% of my “at-bats.”  Then you don’t even have to run at all.  So, anyway.  Softball aside (since we have proven it doesn’t count), I ran.  I made it a half of a mile at a 1.5 incline (which is supposed to be really close to the amount of force you would need to exert to run on a flat road according to Runner’s World) at 5.0 mph.  I gave up, more like it.  I stopped running at a half a mile.  My face was red, I was dripping sweat all over the treadmill and I wasn’t exactly sure if I needed to antibacterialize the belt if I was dripping sweat on it.  At about .7 miles I decided I was pretty much a pansy and started running again.  I figured I could make it .2 miles and feel good about my progress.  So I ran the last .2 at 6.0 mph.  I got off the treadmill and almost hit the ground.  I caught myself.  Someday I’m going to create a pill that helps with post-treadmill-exercise-spaghetti-leg. 

Well, it appears that the little gnomes that usually unpack boxes for the unwilling movers were left somewhere along the venture.  Guess I’m stuck doing it, huh?  I miss you all so much.  Please do a “hope Krys gets the Baylor job” dance.  I could use it!