There is an expensive bottle of wine in my kitchen that I bought over a year ago on a celebratory Napa trip with coworkers, to be drunk on the occasion of my promotion to Associate Director, or in the event of a move to New York City (I specifically imagined drinking it in my newly empty apartment in San Francisco, all my belongings having already migrated into the heart of a truck heading to the other side of the country).
Neither of these things came to pass. There is no promotion -- after 2.5 years in San Francisco, after over 9 years in total in that singular Big 4 consulting / public accounting world, I have now moved on to what we refer to as 'industry' (or at least I will come late April). And there is no move to New York City because after 2.5 years in San Francisco I finally found whatever it was I needed to finally admit that I need to go home.
Home to Melbourne.
I made up my mind to move home in early January 2017. Everything fell into place very quickly after that. Of course -- this is how it works with me. Slowly or all at once.
And yes, I'm excited, but more than that I'm terrified. I worry that this is the wrong move for me professionally, though I couldn't tell you what else I could or would be doing here in the US. I worry that I won't live up to all the expectations of me at my new job because for so long, I was a medium-sized fish in a good-sized pond and I was, y'know, comfortable, and I had a lot of goodwill built up, and people trusted me -- and people trusting me is why and how I got this new job in the first place, and what if they were wrong and I let everyone down? I worry that there isn't room anymore for me in my friends' current lives -- because of course I'm not the only one who's changed: everyone else has moved on, coupled up, had babies. What if I end up friendless? And I worry I won't find an apartment in the two weeks I've given myself before I start my new job. I worry and I worry and I worry.
And I do what I usually do when I worry: I make lists; I cross things off; I schedule tasks; I make phone calls; I take copious notes. I talk to a glass of wine or two, a willing friend or two. I hide in books.
I gave bullet journaling a shot the other night and realized that I couldn't see or imagine life beyond April. Which makes sense, I guess. I get on that plane on April 10. I land on the other side of the planet on April 12.
Then I'll make new lists and cross things off. I'll have a glass of wine or two with a willing friend or two. And there'll be new books to hide in -- I already know I want to pick up a copy of Jessica Anne Friedmann's essay collection (I've been reading her since her Farrago days, and there's a weird sense of pride in seeing how she's turned out). I'm planning to buy my copy of her book from a local independent bookstore -- probably Readings Carlton since it's close to our old Melbourne Uni stomping grounds -- and with any luck, I'll be reading it shortly after while curled up on the wooden floors of my newly acquired, sun-drenched apartment in Fitzroy North. With any luck and a lot of hard work and charm.
(I've rebooted my life before. I can do it again.)