I find myself surrounded by a seemingly endless sea of boxes. I only know what’s in about a quarter of them. I’m sharing a bathroom with three cats; that’s three cats more than I ever wanted. The refrigerator has called it quits. It simply sits now, a 200lb. room temperature paper weight. The dryer squats in the corner of the spare bedroom unusable, too large for an already small laundry area. Walking through the new place feels like a series of tactical exercises meant to prepare troops for the conditions of war. Each time I veer off the safe path through each room, I feel a bit like Indiana Jones, constantly wary of ancient booby trips. A lapse in attention, even just a few seconds, could easily result in a banged knee or bruised shin. Even worse, a ravaged toe. And always in the back of my mind, the nagging concern that I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Completely by accident, Atlanta had been home for the last fourteen years. From the beginning, I had an intense love-hate relationship with “Hotlanta” or “The ATL” (an alias I loathe, for reasons I can’t even really explain.) However, roughly three years ago, the scales slowly began tipping more towards the “hate” side of things. And like any good dysfunctional relationship, it seemed it was time to move on, both professionally and personally. I was offered an opportunity in Charleston, SC, the “friendliest city in the country.”
The initial salary was much lower then I would have liked. The potential for growth however, seems immense. But the seconds thoughts remained. Leaving a comfort zone and an established routine is not always an easy choice. Yet, I could feel myself growing stagnant in Atlanta. One day was blurring into the next and life itself seemed to be on hold. I wasn’t living so much as I was just existing. Slowly, a “Oh well, what the hell?” attitude began to form. I knew what was waiting if I remained in Atlanta: more of the same. I was already unhappy and unfulfilled. Why remain? With some hesitation, I accepted the position.
And so I find myself in a new place, attempting to squeeze the contents of a three bedroom house into a two bedroom apartment. Ponds and damp ground are all around me now. Countless frogs sound off day and night, loud enough sometimes to be heard over the TV or Xbox. It’s a soothing sound and one I hope I never tire of hearing. Below me, the neighbor is the stereotypical cat lady; three in her apartment and feeder of countless neighborhood cats. When I’m outside, if the wind blows just right, the smell of cat urine from her front porch blocks out everything else. I dread the coming summer and what the humidity is going to do to that smell. At least once a night, I hear a quarrel between two or more of these cats; a sound that sends my animals dashing throughout the apartment, trying to find the source of the ruckus. Despite this, Cat Lady seems pleasant enough.
For better or worse, Charleston is now home. The second guesses are still there and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get the bills to pay themselves. But some of the best things that happen in life, happened because I said yes to something. Otherwise, things just stay the same. And deep down I know if I wait for things to be perfect, I’ll always be waiting.
