Because it's all about the in between and what lives in your dreams.

In happier news than that of the last blog, I got approved for my very own apartment today.  Mine.  No one else's.  No co-signor.  No roommates.  No one to blame if the dishes are dirty or there's no toilet paper.  No one to compromise with on the color of the walls, shade of the bathroom curtain, or the evening's television choices. 

Of course, no one to cook with, or vent to, or play board games with.  No one to help me back up when I fall or hug me when I cry or laugh uncontrollably when I do something ridiculous.  But somehow I think I'll survive.  There are phones in Charlotte, and I do have a car if the quiet is unbearable.

Mine.

The last time I lived alone, I was 21 and scared out of my mind.  I cried myself to sleep most nights.  I couldn't even tell you what exactly frightened me so, all I remember is that it was not my decision to be solo and I was hellbent on letting the world know that it made me miserable.  This lasted all of 2 months and then Jennifer rescued me.  It's been roommates for me ever since. 

And to be fair, I have generally been blessed with incredible luck in living situations.  Sure, there was the whole situation with She-Who-Shall-Now-Only-Be-Known-As-Bitchface back in December 2009.  Long story short?  She decided rent was optional, lied to all parties involved, and reduced what was suppose to be a lovely weekend to something that quite resembled a Jerry Springer episode.  Cops were involved, fake tears shed, words screamed and insults hurled.  It sucked at the time, but it's a pretty riveting story to tell now, if you ever have a couple hours to throw my way.  BUT OTHER THAN THAT!  Seriously.  Lucky.

But now it's time to live alone, hopefully for the last time in my life because it sure would be swell if there's love, marriage, and a couple of baby carriages around the next turn.  Who knows, though?  God laughs at plans, so I stopped making them awhile ago.  Wishes are different, thankyouverymuch, and dreams will always exist.

I digress.  New apartment.   Mine.  I sign the lease and get the keys on Thursday.  I made my preliminary Home Depot run today and have shiny new tools and picture hooks and lamps to show for it.  I sense Wal*Mart and Target and Old Time and World Market and let's be honest, probably Bed Bath & Beyond in my near future.  (I adore the thrill of new supplies, of almost any variety.)  The physical act of moving sucks, but the feeling of newness and starting over (yet again) is so, so worth it. 

Oh, and have I mentioned my fabulous new apartments has a bedroom/bathroom/closet layout uncannily similar to Carrie Bradshaw's and comes equipped with washer and dryer?  Lord Almighty, my prayers have truly been answered.

And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow

I wasn't going to bring this news to the world wide web, but I guess if you're invested enough in me to check my blog, you deserve to know that my Granny Connie left this world on February 10.  I knew I'd experience highs and lows when I moved - I didn't know I'd be singing at my Grandmother's funeral within the first 3 weeks.  In the end, she was ready.  She was tired.  It's what she wanted, and I guess God was ready to welcome her Home.  But it still doesn't make a whole lot of sense to the mere mortals still here on earth.

Childhood and adolescence are hard on everyone.  I know that now.  But when you're a kid and you're bearing the burden of figuring out life and learning it's sometimes harder than you'd wish and someone else always seems to have it easier, you need that safe place.  That person who says I love you exactly how you are.  That kitchen that's always full of your favorite foods, that backyard filled with your favorite toys, that bookshelf that always has exactly what you want to read, that swing where you learn to let your cares slip away.  Granny, you were that person: your house, that house, your things, those things. 

Thirty-something miles outside of Birmingham, AL sits the town of McCalla.  In the town of McCalla stretches a road called Eastern Valley, once full of all sorts of Kendricks, the brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, cousins, aunts and uncles of my family.  One by one they all passed, or moved.  Granny Connie was the last one standing.  I thought she'd be standing awhile longer, keeping watch, pulling up weeds, fussing over Sunday dinner preparations and showing me how to crotchet. 

If I've learned anything from her, it's that life is what's happening now.  She never complained or wished her life was any different than exactly what it was.  She didn't harped on the past or waste time dawdling in idle daydreams.  She raised three children who in turn gave her eight grandchildren, all of whom adored every second spent with her.  If I can be a fraction of the wife, mother, sister, friend and woman she was, it will be a major miracle. 

Sleep well, Granny.  God knows you've earned it.  I hope you're enjoying Heaven, arm in arm with Paw-Paw, shelling peas on the front porch, baking this world's best macaroni and cheese and cornbread.  Thank you for a lifetime of lessons, a lot of love, and a family I'm both lucky and proud to be a part of.  My happiest memories are filled with you.

Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard.

I did it.
I moved.
And I thought the whole packing and moving and goodbye New York thing would be the hard part.  But suddenly what I thought I wanted - no plans, no strings attached - is suddenly the most daunting thing imaginable. 
And just when I think I can't possibly be any more overwhelmed I realize that the real root of the problem is the simple fact that I don't have a single clue of what I want to be when I grow up.  Which is an absurd thing for a 28 year old to say, but there you have it.  I'm sitting here staring at job website after website, fear rising that I am clueless, lost and painted to a mighty uncomfortable corner.

I knew moving wouldn't immediately solve all my beef with life and that things need time to set and gel.  I'm not surprised by these feelings.  But I still don't have to like them.

It's my blog and I'll whine if I want to. 

Being a wanderlust is only fun most of the time.