I feel like a gypsy. I know I am not, and that there are people wish I would stay where I am, but as much as I live and die for my friends, I don’t think I could actually survive in Salt Lake. I could, I guess, if I could move out from under my father’s roof, and if Steve Ward could import matches for me until something really worked. But the reality of it is that if I did stay I have this great fear that I would wake up thirty five without anything to show for the last ten years that flew by without notice.
So with staying out of the question, the great debate turns to where to go from here.
I have a love hate relationship with planning, I want a plan, but I also secretly wish that something magically delicious will walk into my life and change every plan I have thought of making. But alas there is no way to plan for the unknown, and I have a developing theory that no one in my generation is in it just for the experience.
An intense desire to plan ahead has left no room for the unplanned greatness of living for experiences. I want adventures, and sneak attack romances, but it feels like everyone else wants rigorous itineraries and to date only in the steps of eventual marriage. But who really knows where anything will end up? Why would you hang all of your happiness on the uncertain promise of forever when you could have the great ecstasy of every evolving present moment?
In an effort to combat this planning plague, I have vowed to expel “what if” from my vocabulary, and only plan the next great adventure, always leaving space for the excitement of pending adventures.
So what’s next? Well… next I will get through Valentines Day with the help of amazing girlfriends, and then it’s off to Paris for me. And honestly who can complain about anything when they are off to Paris?
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