After too many years in my own little satellite, the mother ship feels like it’s calling. When I started getting serious with my husband (you know, two months in), one of the first red flags I ‘fessed up to was the likelihood of my having to move to remain employed. “Knoxville is just a little stop for my company,” I said, “and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to eke out a career here.”
Sure enough, it feels like our easy, inexpensive life is going to have to change.
Not too many years ago, I would have been excited. New city, new home, new start, new life. Each move was an adventure. Even before I started moving between cities, I’d gotten the urge to move houses at least every 18 months.
But I’ve been here – in this city, in this house – long enough that change feels more scary than adventurous. Owning a home has upped the ante, too. Whereas before I’d just go the low-commitment route of renting, my hubby is a devoted homeowner. The idea of selling and buying and qualifying and paying and closing and… yuck.
I’d been composing a post in my head about the peace I’ve felt since having my son. Unlike the adult life I’d known, with him in it, there’s no chance of stasis. Every day, he moves inevitably, inexorably, forward. I love it.
The contrast to how I feel about causing a change is interesting. I used to force a change to get the movement I needed but causing an abrupt overflow of chaos. Now, much as I’d like to ride the waves a bit longer, I’m going to have to suck it up and go for a swim.