Last Christmas, I was working at lululemon on Christmas Eve.
Real world apparently meant: renting a teeny room with a twin bed in a house with 3 others; working 30 hours a week selling yoga pants; eating dinner at my mom’s a couple days a week; writing many angsty poems.
I’m glad I’m not in that place anymore.
I don’t want to imply that that experience wasn’t valid. But I’m glad I didn’t stay in that space. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Things that have changed in the last year:
1. I have a salaried job and a recent promotion.
2. I live by myself.
3. I pay for my own internet.
4. When the money runs out, there is no more food.
5. I have much less energy for angst in my creative work.
So much shifted in the last year that I’m not even sure who that girl with the mistletoe headband was. I love her. I remember her. But I am not her anymore.
I tend to get homesick a lot. But not just for going home physically. I get homesick for people, homesick for past versions of myself and my life. I get homesick and nostalgic and my feelings get so mixed up that I can’t even remember if the past really was bad or good or whatever my mental timeline has named it.
And then I get to go home. To remember who I am in that part of me that doesn’t change with my phases. The core of me who holds the artistic angst and the Internet-paying grown-up.
I don’t know what exactly this post is supposed to be about. Just that I felt a little homesick last night, even as I am going home, and I wanted to share it here.