A friend recently told me I've been on the go since I was fourteen. I laughed and didn't ask her for any further details about what that might mean. I used to scoff at peers who took gap years, working in sticky, scuddy bars, temping around a foreign country at one hundred and forty words per minute, doing their hair nice to stand in an almost empty store listlessly rearranging racks of clothing for eight to ten hours or so. Now, I want to be there with them. I want a section in my CV with time carved out for a big white blank. I'll think about what to label it later. I want to be embarrassed by the stupid jobs I worked, downsize all my earthly possessions, and for once, be lost in a city where buildings are so high you have to crane your neck to look at the sky. Let's slow it down. I don't want to be on the go anymore.
Let's check out of this place together.