Fat, Forty and Broke: A Year in Review
I know what you're thinking. I"m not forty. It sounds better. Let me have it.
This time last year, I was renting an apartment over the phone, planning a yard sale and gearing up to leave all my friends and family. Everything was clicking. Serendipity was in play. Click, click, click.
Then mmmmmm. Then some more mmmmmm. Now I feel like someone who was robbed, beaten and nursed back to health (while being feed an inordinate amount of Rally's french fries) by a wizened urban planner who told tales of impact fees and sense of place only to return me to the wild; broke, disoriented and with slightly higher cholesterol.
Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I came. I don't regret it. I met amazing people (mostly named Jessica - lots of Jessicas in Indiana), learned to like beer (thanks to Tim and a great trip to Milwaukee), and developed a love of gardening. But now I'm ready to leave. Without a degree, without a savings account.
I don't know where I am going. I don't know how I'll get there. I'm just waiting for something to click.