You may have noticed I haven’t been around much lately.
It’s because I have a severe case of wanderlust. The seven-year itch is slipping in and I wanna slip away. I’m throwing a tantrum in my head. It’s getting like a daycare right before naptime in there.
I have a history of this.
Some people collect stamps, Lady Di memorabilia or those little tiny spoons that never actually get used as spoons, but I collect experiences. It is my goal in life to experience everything at least once. (Well, wait – let me amend that. It is my goal to experience everything cool at least once. I have no desire to experience poison ivy, starring on a reality show or living in the suburbs.)
I used to be so bad, I used to move every year. I would have 3 jobs at once, because I couldn’t stand working 40 hours a week at the same place.
I’m haven’t been that bad in a while, because I’ve learned that there are other, better ways to stave off the restlessness and get my adrenaline fix.
Sometimes the spontaneous acts that are bred by this ambition lead to good things, sometimes not so good; but the things that remain are the memories, the experiences. I’ve jumped out of airplanes. I’ve dropped everything and given away all of my stuff to take a road trip across the continent. I’ve torn off my clothes and gone skinny-dipping with large numbers of near-strangers. I’ve taken a lot of chances and I don’t regret a single one.
I’ve never understood boredom, with everything there is out there to experience.
Except now, I find myself climbing the walls.
I’ve been living in the same place for eons. I’ve been working the same job for centuries. I’ve been getting entirely too much sleep. Even skydiving is getting old (and where do you go from there? I mean, I’m still waiting to hear back from NASA, but in the meantime…?)
I find myself dreaming constantly about the city. I am craving the noise, the smells and tastes and sights. I miss people-watching. I miss summer, too. I want to wander the streets late at night without the police pulling over to ask if I’m okay (because the streets in a small town are empty at night, except for drunks and abused women running away from their spouses.) I want to make love in the field of sunflowers painted by van Gogh, I want to make love on a train rattling through ancient towns full of people and sights as yet unseen, I want to make love in the London Eye (there has to be a way). I want to celebrate life. I don’t want to read about it. I don’t want to write about it. I want to live it.
This longing has been going on for some time, well over a year. I need to shake things up. (And right about now, my boss is reading this and having a mini-heart attack and already beginning to search for my replacement…)
I probably just need to rearrange the furniture or get a new haircut or something, right?