I like to move.
Thankfully, I married a man who isn’t afraid of a moving truck.
Moving is exciting, full of possibility.
On the surface, these are good things. But what if instead of wanting to move towards something new, I’m actually trying to move away from something old.
I want to move because every new house is a big “start-over.” A chance to change the path I’m on. A chance to be skinnier and tanner. To go to bed earlier and become a morning person. To keep my house cleaner and my closets organized. To live in a house where every window has curtains and pictures hang on every wall. To spend time in an office so perfect, my first book writes itself. A chance to become the me I wish I was.
I’ve moved eight times as a married woman. Things haven’t changed. I stay up too late and feel foggy in the morning. I have more clothes on the bedroom floor than in my closet. (It is literally the same bedroom I had when I was a teenager and it’s just as messy as when I was 16.) I don’t have an herb garden. I’m not skinny. I haven’t written a book.
Over the years, everything around me has changed and I’m still the same. I get the important stuff done. I’m a good wife. I’m a good mother. But I’m not a good Abbie.
What does a good Abbie look like? While doing research for this post, I learned some of the things that make up a good Abbie are not so good. (A dark suntan.) Some things are good, but this isn’t a good time to add them to my life. (Run half-marathons, grow an herb garden.)
Last week I thought we might get to move again. Did I mention I love to move. When the opportunity fell through, I was disappointed. This was going to be the move that changed everything.
No move = no fresh start.
Well, now that’s just silly. I control the “restart” button of my life. I can push it whenever I want.
Here goes nothing.
I’m mashin’ the button.