Guilt trip

I’ve managed to guilt myself into writing something, anything down in this sad, neglected corner of cyberspace. Having come back from my holiday (which was fab, thanks) a relaxed, slightly pink tinged, generally chilled out woman, I’m now slowly submerging myself in work again. Except I’m not. Except I’m demob happy. I’m counting down the days, weeks, months until the next big adventure begins.

When will it be?
When will I move?
Where am I going to live?
Will I have a local café that I’ll spend lazy Saturday mornings in, watching the world go by or, more probably, will I think about going to a local café and watching the world go by but veto it and stay in bed instead?
How will I decorate the new place?
Will I go IKEA mad at the slightest chance?

The more I think about it, the more excited I am to leave. Which surprised me when I first came to that dawning realisation.

After all, I don’t hate my life. It’s pretty damn awesome. Or is it? Or have I got myself into a rut of comfort which I really need to leave? Isn’t it time I got out there, met new people and had a bit of adventure? Isn’t it time that I started enjoying the fact I’m free and single instead of constantly thinking that there’s nothing left for me?

When I was 17, being in my late 20s didn’t seem too bad. I mean, why would it? I was going to be married and happy by that point, right?

Now that my late 20s has hit, I feel like I’m past it. Friends around me get married and produce babies in quick succession. People change, priorities change and I haven’t.

Which is why this move will be good for me. It’s a chance for me to Ctrl-Alt-Del, start anew and see what life brings me.

No preconceptions, no goals, no expectations.  

No guilt about this trip.