Today is the anniversary of my new life.
Eleven years ago today, I landed in San Diego on a rain-swept runway (yes..I was in a plane). I picked up my poor cat, Ollie, locked into a large enough pet carrier that he could swing a cat--even himself--if he wanted to, but backed against the far wall in as small a space as he could muster. We took a taxi to my new apartment in the Gaslamp Quarter, an empty space that had its carpet freshly shampooed and still wet to the touch. The movers arrived a few days later with all of my stuff.
It was the boldest move I've ever made in my life, the one that ended the "would have, could have, should have" about the second--or maybe third--act I was to go through. I lucked into a dream job that I've had for almost ten years now, and while I'm not rich, I'm certainly successful enough to realize life doesn't suck, no matter how I happen to feel at any particular moment (don't ask).
Eleven years is about one/fifth of my life. I'm happy I could spend that time living in paradise.
Comments