One year ago today, Mr. J and I woke up early, stuffed ourselves full of breakfast, and picked up the keys to our new apartment.
Then we drove to IKEA and bought new furniture. That day was a very happy day for me, and even now, one year later, I can recall that happiness ... feel the anticipation of adventure and excitement building. I was moving, finally, on purpose.
Not the random moves of my childhood; not the natural-progression moves of moving in with a boyfriend. But moving because I wanted to move. Moving because it was time, and it was my choice. And I was leaving town. Granted, I didn't move far. Not far enough to have different weather, and barely far enough to have a built-in
excuse reason to skip Christmas, but still. I was in a different county, in a different state, and I felt all grown up.
Have I done everything I promised myself I would do in the last year? No.
I've gotten a little better. I no longer save everything.
I still have a problem throwing bags away. Thanks a million, Ma.
I'm still lazy, and have the most difficult time remembering my promises to cook and clean.
I have enjoyed this apartment immensely though. It feels like a haven, like my own little bubble where I hide from the world and pretend to be normal.