Anyone who talks to me on a regular basis is well aware that I've been having an existential crisis as of late, mainly with regard to the fact that, at the ripe old age of thirty, I'm still treading water professionally. (How's that for a euphemism?) Fact is, I've got only a handful of college credits and a spotty resume full of short-term jobs ranging from "vacuum cleaner sales" (yeah, there are some stories there) to "business owner" to "architectural estimator" and finally, "bartender." It's been fun, but I can't live like this anymore. I'm stuck, and it's -- to say the least -- uncomfortable. What to do? The simplest answer is, I've got to go back to school. Now.
In the year and a half I've spent in New York, the only thing I've accomplished is becoming even more poor than I was when I moved there. Living in New York City is both exhilirating and exhausting; while there's no place I'd rather be, I've realized that I may have to ditch The City -- at least temporarily -- for someplace where the rents are low and the commutes short, if I intend to maintain full schedules in both school and work. So. . . I'm seriously considering moving back to Florida for at least the next couple of years.
This scares the living shit out of me. It feels even more frightening than my spur-of-the-moment move TO New York, when I got on a plane with two suitcases, a pocketful of cash, and no fucking idea what I was going to do when I arrived. What's so scary is that I know exactly what I'm getting myself into if I decide to return to my hometown, and frankly, I'm not sure how I'll handle it. Remember "Cheers"? Well, this is a whole TOWN where everybody knows your name. And just about everything else about you, your family, and anyone you've ever dated. Walking into a bar after a two-year absence and having the bartender pour my usual drink before I have to ask for it, while laughingly recounting the time I constructed the pyrotechnic "party hats" for my entourage. . . well, somehow the familiarity didn't give me a warm fuzzy feeling. More like a cold creepy one.
Am I just a chicken? Does it matter? I'm starting to feel that coming home is the wisest choice.
I'm -- ahem -- unmoored. Fuck.