What, I ask you, is the purpose of having a blog if you never actually...blog? I'm sorry to have let you down these past few weeks, dear readers (all three of you). I do have a legitimate excuse, I assure you (starts with a D and rhymes with "remorse"; a word which, in and of itself, bears a rather sickening relevance to the situation). For your sake as well as my own, I'm going to omit the gory details. Up until about two days ago though, I had that kind of washed-out, hollow look about me, all apparition-like, as if my spirit had been vacuumed right out of me. I looked and felt like I'd been through an emotional holocaust. The fact that I'm even able to write about this proves the possibility to heal and move on. I do still feel some of the residual effects, so I'm treading carefully, wary of aftershocks. When emotion does get the better of me, I feel it in every nerve of my body, and a chill goes through me as if winter has settled in my body and my insides completely freeze up. I have to just ride it out because there's really nothing anyone can say or do to make it pass. Only time.
My world has completely flipped like a pancake. My brain has yet to fully compute the vast change of direction my life has taken. Somehow over the course of a few days, I managed to score a fantastic apartment and an equally fantastic job, before I'd even had any time to adjust to the idea of moving to San Fran. Once I started in that direction though, as lost and confused and emotionally broken as I was, things seemed to just fall right into place. Now, I'm somewhat skeptical when it comes to fate and destiny, but, if I were a believer, I'd say the universe and the powers-that-be have been pulling some strings. Before you could say "discombobulation", I was packing remnants of my previous lives into a few suitcases, while working to adjust to the prospect of a new life altogether.
And so, here I am. Sitting in a foreign bed, in a foreign apartment, in a foreign city, and asking myself just how the hell I got here. I start work on Monday and it's still so surreal to me. The job itself is terrifying in theory, but seeing as my psyche has yet to fully accept that I'll actually be employed again as of next week, the concept isn't having too much of an impact yet. I imagine the horror will set in around 7 a.m. Monday morning.
My neighborhood is incredible, busy and thriving even on a Tuesday evening. Fun restaurants and shops - windows full of gourmet chocolates, a wide range of international wine, and plenty of jock straps and rubber penis key rings. What more could a girl possibly want? We visited a coffee shop just blocks from my new home, where I managed to confuse the hell out of the French barista with my silly nonsense about "ounces" and what-not. I suddenly felt I'd been transported to Paris as I was experiencing that all-too-familiar, cheek-reddening awkwardness of being the ignorant American idiot. We were able to eventually establish the size I would like, and I was then served what was quite possibly the best vanilla latte I've ever had. God bless the French. They know their coffee.
If the hill leading to our house were any steeper, I would need a harness and some rope. I do know that although it may be torture right now (considering that during the last few weeks, my idea of exercise was walking into the kitchen to grab a sandwich), I know all of this trekking up and down hills will pay off when i have an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. Until then, I'll be huffing and puffing like a pack mule.
I'm off to bed now - have to rest up for another day of leisurely wandering around my new city. San Francisco and I are still getting acquainted and trying to determine if we like each other. My new roommate suggested we go grocery shopping, and my brain initially rejected the idea because my dear, confused brain has yet to accept that this is home. It's going to take some time. Although my brain never did accept Olympia as home, even though it had two (long, painful) years to do so. But who can blame it, really.
