I am not sure if I had an inexplicable desire to move across the country. I might have been running from something.
This is not particularly unusual for me, as I’m turning 27 in three weeks and I have quite the track record—17 different cities, 25 different houses, in 10 different states.
The nomadic spirit is a blessing and a curse.
It made it easier to leave dead-end situations, knowing that as soon as I could settle somewhere else life could officially begin. However, in some cases the wanderlust can be damning.
I knew that moving to Chicago was likely only a temporary move. It was a multi-faceted and utlitarian. It was the opportunity I needed to finish my education, adding two more degrees to the shelf before turning 26. It was a chance to live in a big city, alone, which had always been the fantasy.
Chicago was a chance to not just make it, but thrive on my own after five years of being entirely too reliant on a man that I now realize never loved me even a quarter as much as I did him.
If I learned one lesson as a child, it was that education would bring freedom and fulfillment. When I finished high school, I was not convinced that I wanted to attend a traditional four-year university, because I wanted to be a chef. However, I chose the more traditional path through academia, because the mantra of my family was that education equaled success.
And for my parents, it did. My dad had degrees and he was the CEO of a company. And even though my mother quit college a semester before graduation to take care of two children and a sick husband, she found success in owning her own business.
And education was the path I wanted, after a privileged upbringing. Money can not buy happiness, but it can certainly make life easier. Half of the stress in my life comes from checking the mailbox and my credit report. Graduate school was the fast path to financial freedom indefinitely.
It would mean a brand new MINI Cooper, instead of the old one that has a dent in the side that I believe is more reminiscent of a beating with a Louisville Slugger than an accidental garage collision.
More education would mean a bigger apartment, instead of a shared space or a studio. Of course, my studio was ideal when alone, but hosting a dinner party in which everyone sat in tailgating chairs while awkwardly trying to cut their London Broil, plate in lap was less than ideal.
Still, I think everyone had fun… but that was probably the wine.
Not only would more education bring material happiness, it would mean a mental fulfillment I had always sought, but could not find. Not only would I feel more intelligent, I could quantify my intelligence when questioned.
The conversation goes something like this:
“Have you ever been to college?”
“Yes, I have four degrees, in fact.”
And then any line of questioning about my opinions, beliefs, or questions to Jeopardy-esque answers would end—I would be unquestionably intelligent; no need to actually prove it.
And in further naïve views, graduate school might lead to the man of my dreams.
Picture spending days in a research library, living within the annals of academia. The research library at my university overlooked Millennium Park. I could see the building’s reflection in the bean, the tourists on the sidewalk. I did some of my best thinking while staring at the sailboats on Lake Michigan while pondering demographic trends for assisted living facilities—part of my thesis.
And also in this library? Large leather sofas that begged to be shared with ambitious bearded, hipster-glass wearing classmates. And in this library, you’d meet the man that you could not live without. When people ask how you’d met, you would mention your alma mater, then you’d explain how your paths had once crossed in an advanced statistical analysis class. He kept asking for your help with regressions, which would lead to late-night study sessions that were probably 10% studying, 30% alcohol, and 60% sex.
And you would share a condo in Lakeview, you would run on the lake front trail every Sunday morning with your dog, and you would spend summer afternoons at the ballpark to escape from the stressors of being successful and important in corporate America.
But, three years later, only some of those dreams came true. And when an offer for a job came in Washington, DC it seemed that I had no choice but to move.
I have always operated under the premise that I could live many places with just a few constraints.
- Must be a major city with public transportation to commute to work
- Must be able to keep my car for errand-running and road-trips
- Must have a Major League Baseball team
- Must have a hockey team (AHL acceptable)
Since I had laid out such loose criteria, logic said I had to accept the job in Washington, DC. Plus, in this economy the dream job—of feasibility and design analysis for a commercial development firm—did not exist. So when opportunity knocked, any opportunity at all, I had to jump. Were it not for all of writing I get to do, and the lives that I touch daily, I would probably just sleep under my desk and surf the internet all day.
My biggest issue with Washington DC has little to do with the city itself, and more to do with me. The move has been a reminder of all of the failures and unfulfilled goals on the “Where Will I be in 5 years?” list.
I do not have a new car, and the MINI Cooper has an undiagnosed broken piece that is related to steering, which is now making it impossible to parallel park. I would take it to the shop for a diagnosis, but that phone call telling me that the repairs are more than three months’ rent are just a reminder of the financial stress I feel since I haven’t landed the dream job I was promised (albeit the promise was self-made).
And in case you’re wondering, falling in love in graduate school did not happen. There was never a tryst with a soon-to-be tycoon. There was never coffee with the next entrepreneur who will create something that revolutionizes the way we live. The only companions I brought to Washington, DC were my dog—that was purchased for protection and company—and a collection of books and baseball cards that work surprisingly well at filling plan less evenings that would be better spent waxing romantically with a real companion. But, these supplements are important none the less.
And since 2009-2011 did not go as they were intended, I have no choice but to adjust accordingly and continue with caution and differing (lowered?) expectations.
I am finding that life is not going to provide contentment for me from the traditional path of education and hard work. Not at this point, at least. For now, it is time to get creative.
So 2012 begins with more writing.
It begins with a focus on this site, a novel, and finally—more baseball writing.
And perhaps the disappointments of post-graduate and unassured security melt away.
I have been confused and reflective of my discontent with Washington, DC since October. It has been largely lonely, especially since my most-recent breakup. It has been unfulfilling professionally, especially because my responsibilities are limited to whatever menial tasks my boss is willing to delegate that day.
But, I am sitting at a coffee shop with an Americano and a fully-charged laptop. And as climate change makes it acceptable to sit outside in early January I find myself smiling, realizing there is nothing else I would rather do at this moment than write, drink coffee…and smile.
So for now, writing it is.