I’ve changed blogs a lot. Like a lot a lot. It’s always something. And if it’s not something, I’ll make something up. It’s too visible and I don’t want anyone to know I exist. Or it’s too hidden and hey, world, look at me! The name doesn’t suit me or I’ve just come up with a better one. I don’t like the platform. But the new platform is too sophisticated (I’m lookin’ at you WordPress).
What this all means is I have posts all over the web. I’ve been blogging since 2006. Almost 10 years. (You’d like the 10 years ago me way better. She was way less worried about Every. Little. Tiny. Thing.) I hate that the many blog posts I’ve written over the years aren’t all in one tidied up little space. But do I want to keep dragging all that baggage around?
I thought I did. And I started to. I imported hundreds upon thousands of old blog posts right here. (Where “hundreds upon thousands” actually means “hundreds upon hundreds” because I don’t blog nearly as often as years pass.) And then disaster struck. I noticed a link in an old post was broken. So I went in to fix it and when I did I found some old, embedded Blogger code. And when I looked at another post to see if it was on that one, too, it was! And on another, the Flickr equivalent of a broken link had happened and a picture wasn’t showing! And then I had to start going into EVERY SINGLE POST to make sure everything was working because I need to sleep at night!
Which leads me to the here and now. 100+ old blog posts read and it has occurred to me: I’m lonely. And not very happy. (Don’t get me wrong. There are people and moments and a dog named Friday that bring me happiness. But.) And the maddening thing of all is I saw this coming a long time ago. Right about the time I got divorced. I knew I needed to make adjustments, changes, make a life for myself… But did I?
I’ve been adrift in this rank sea of divorce, hoping to find shore (where the normal, happy people reside), and instead of using these useless appendages called ARMS AND LEGS and trying to SWIM FOR IT, I allowed that stupid divorce to do the one thing I swore it wouldn’t. Pull me under. And I’m not the same carefree, happy girl I once was. (I’m not a “girl” anymore, either. Now I’m a 32-year-old woman. Grody.)
I need to make a change (she said for the 819th time). I thought: I need to travel. Get out and see some new sights, meet some new people. I need to be like that girl in the sales department that’s always traveling and journeying to far off places like Machu Picchu. I need to be like the people in the pictures I scroll through on Instagram when I’m lying in bed at night and watching Friends (again). (And I’m not talking about selfies. I can take selfies.)
But then something else occurred to me. That more important than traveling to far off places was to figure out if that was really going to make me happy. Because, sure, I can get on a plane tomorrow! (Or in a month, after I’ve made arrangements to take time off work.) I can fly off to anywhere I want! (Well, just as soon as I get my passport.) But is that really going to make me happy? Like, happy happy? Because, just like all these abandoned blogs, I can jump around from one far off land to another, trying to find the unicorn, but unless a unicorn is really what I want, it’s not going to make me happy when I find it. (Or something.)
So, this has all led me to one final conclusion. It’s time to figure shit out. Like, for real this time. (‘Cause so help me, if I write this post again in 2016, I will take a deep breath.) (Read the part about drowning again; it’ll make sense.)