I have 52 days until I complete graduate school and, knowing me, will quickly forget it ever happened. Trying to complete my thesis is like I wrapping saran wrap around packing peanuts. I can see the task at hand but just can't seem to get it all into one tight package. There is laundry all over the floor, last night's dishes are still in the sink, and I'm pretty sure it's been a few days since I've showered. Who am I turning into? I can see the icons on my desktop of deadlines, papers, and projects, but instead I choose to watch food travel shows and read my Joy of Cooking like a nun browses the bible. "And Irma said: on the first day, the dough shall rise."
I've never been one to procrastinate horribly. I mean, sure, I left many a college paper to the 4am rush hour, but only because I was so busy. I can hardly call my lifestyle "busy" any longer. But this feeling of slowness and apathy seems to come from a lack of knowing where I've come from and where I'm going. I have no memory and I have no plan. But somehow I don't feel lost or confused, as many people tell me I should feel. "Aren't you nervous to move to a big city?" "What are you doing when you graduate?" "You should be worried about making money." "Do you have a plan?" Nope, but thanks for caring.
All I really want to do is travel and write, write and travel. Oh, and eat. Ohh how I love to eat almost more than anything in the world. I seek out the meals and plates that are dipped in passion and grilled with family history. It can be the most simple, or most pretentious and chances are you'll hear me sigh with pleasure. So do I have a plan? Sure, I'm going to travel, write, and eat. It can't be that hard, right? Except for the fact that, (from what I'm told,) everyone has this plan. Hmm...ok, so I have reached a hurdle but I will simply imagine the hurdle as a leg of rosemary seasoned lamb, and eat my way through. Problem solved.
I have certainly lived an alternative lifestyle up to this point in the game, (several colleges, working in national parks, living as a ski bum, backpacking solo, choosing a career in food advocacy,) so why stop now? Bring on the luggage, bring on the deadlines, bring on the hollandaise sauce. So I leave this quiet ski town for a booming metropolis in 52 days, but it's just another chapter and something to look forward to. I simply need to do what I love, live where I'm happy, and eat what is in front of me and I will have no fear; after all, I probably won't remember any of this anyway.