The mere thought of packing up goods and chattels to move towns and jobs propels some of my friends to crawl back under their doonas! And rightly so. Moving is not for the faint hearted. I know. Two months ago I moved towns and jobs. There have been many, many moments since when I realised I was in the grip of an existential crisis and tortured myself with an ongoing mantra: ‘WTH was I thinking?!?’
I wondered this when the silent reality of being an ’empty nester’ hit me just days after I was revelling the solitude and I was tempted to cry into my pillow at night.
It was a bit of a theme when I couldn’t sleep at night because every unfamiliar sound threatened danger of life and limb.
It crossed my mind a couple of times as I wrestled for two weeks with the pain and nausea of a blocked bile duct (I’ll spare you the gory details!).
It seemed that there was a use-by-date on new beginnings and adventures and that my quota had been filled when I was in my twenties. Truth be told, if I’d been offered a Get Out of Jail Free card, I probably would have taken it.
So what’s the antidote for what I’m affectionately calling Moving Regret? I think it’s pretty simple. Get out. Go look.
At the moment this involves driving around random streets to familiarise myself with my new home. It also doubles as an opportunity to admire (or is that covet?) the AMAZING old houses of this early settlement town.
Granted, the shopping malls are pretty lack lustre, but I’m not really a shopper anyway. In place of chain stores there are the coffee shops. I’m slowly working through the list. As I write this I’m ensconced in a French Patisserie! Who knew that such a treasure would be found in a regional NSW town!
Perhaps there’s a couple of adventures left in my quota.