three sheets to the wind means going elsewhere! :)

I have been in a rut lately. I think it started on the flight back to our normal lives from Hawaii. I got a sudden and unshakable case of post-vacation (aka: real life) blues. Vacation was amazing and exciting and fun and carefree. It was all I could have imagined plus some. But then, we flew back to Omaha, Nebraska. Can I just tell you? I hate Omaha, Nebraska. 

OK, maybe I don’t fully hate it. I voluntarily moved here not once (freshman year of college), but twice (fresh start after college). So obviously, there is some love there, or once was (isn’t it amazing how love can turn from present to past-tense? It’s sad, really. Is anything forever?). But years have drug on without anything new or exciting happening. I am an adventurer by nature: I seek out twists and turns and find absolutely nothing interesting about stability (also read: reason behind my shitty resume).

On the flight from Seattle to Omaha, I almost cried that I was leaving a place I love because I live in a place I don’t. It all felt very permanent and sad. I wallowed in my rut. I thought to myself, “if only I lived somewhere else, everything would be more exciting.” Omaha lenses are no longer rose-colored; they’re dusty brownish gray and fogged up with humidity.

But then, that stupid (but oh so motivating) 7 Habits of Highly Effective People book crept into my mind. “If I really want to improve my situation, I can work on the one thing over which I have control – myself.” God damn you, Stephen Covey! You in your infinite wisdom, not allowing wallowing and self-pity, but rather preaching to get the fuck out of our funks and do something about it. You’re right, of course. Damn it.

In all honesty, I’ve had a couple drinks and suddenly transparency seems of the utmost importance. Maybe it always is, but we just distract ourselves with other bullshit. We tell ourselves that acting like we “have it together” and keeping up appearances means more than being honest and authentic and letting people in to the actual lives we live. Well it isn’t.

I’m the ripe old age of 32 and I can tell you I have learned so far that I gravitate towards the people who are honest and warm and welcoming: warts and all. Those people who work so hard to cover up the juicy parts about them are dull and fake and really not Friend Material (is it too soon to make a Duggar joke? Probably. I’ll sit on that one for a New York minute).

So in all transparency, I do struggle sometimes with very low-level depression. That isn’t a clinical term. I haven’t been diagnosed, been to a shrink, or even Web MD’d it. I am just ball parking it from what I’ve seen on movies and read in books. I have spurts here and there that come and go. Basically I will describe it as an overwhelming feeling of loneliness, even when I’m not alone. And these past three weeks have been one of those ruts.

But it’s time to climb out of it. I have an agenda and new motivation: convince Steve to get out of this god-forsaken town! (Insert emojis here so you think I’m joking but I’m not really). But really, home is where you make it (Joe Dirt). So let’s make it somewhere cool! (emoji again).