Grappling with the known

All my life, I have been afflicted with a dangerous condition. I inherited it from my parents, both of whom exhibited symptoms of it from the time I was two years old and continue to show signs of it today. It has profoundly affected my relationships and my career, and has been the basis for many of my major life decisions.

I have a serious and incurable case of Wanderlust.

For as long as I can remember, I have never really been content. Happy? Yes. Settled? No. I thrive on the new and (presumably) exciting….I work to achieve something, and just when I’ve started to get used to it, I’m on to the next thing. I’m one of the few people I know who is philosophically more afraid of the known than the unknown.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that it doesn’t always manifest itself in a lack of commitment or a grass-is-always-greener approach to life. It doesn’t always mean I have one foot out the door in relationships or a free-to-sublet clause in my rental leases (though there have been plenty of both). And it doesn’t mean that I shy away from life-long pals, because despite being non-committal in most areas of my life and moving around quite frequently, friendships seem to be thankfully immune to my itchy feet.

In fact, sometimes my Wanderlust has been a blessing in disguise. For example, it has most certainly been the driver behind me pushing the envelope professionally. (My theory: If you’re constantly seeking a change of pace, you eventually discover you’re setting it.) More importantly is that I have always thought that the fact that I’m constantly seeking change means that I am better-equipped to deal with the change that I don’t seek...like the unpredictable challenges of my move overseas.

I think generally (save for an initial emotional reaction), my Wanderlust means that I'm pretty adaptable....but in the past couple of days, I have been putting this theory to the test....

Last Thursday, Alex just found out that he will be travelling A LOT for work over the coming months, like two full weeks per month. TO NORTH AMERICA, no less. I have been trying to wrap my head around it for the past few days, and I have to say, it’s tough.

First, I went through a brief phase of anger (“How can he do this to me when I JUST moved here and don’t know anyone and have no life??”). Once those five irrational minutes were over (because CLEARLY it is not his fault), I was on to denial, followed by begrudging acceptance and shortly thereafter, self-pity (Elisabeth Kubler-Ross ain’t got nothing on me). I feel a little better now (I mean, there are far worse things), but I have to say I’m still sad, frustrated and thinking I should phone Alanis Morissette to educate her on the true definition of irony.

But today I started thinking about Wanderlust, and subsequently, about one of the things that attracted me to Alex in the first place. He’s the first person I have ever dated who made me feel like as long as I’m with him, I’ll have no idea where my life will lead. Instead of me leading the travel and new experiences and taking all of the risks, he’s right there alongside me, encouraging me to live life to the fullest. There has always been something really exciting about that.

Don’t get me wrong—I need constants in my life just like the next guy. I’m happy when our relationship is strong and solid, but I’m also really happy that I feel like anything’s possible within those guidelines.

Which is gradually and semi-painfully leading me to this inevitable conclusion: Change comes in many forms, and as long as I'm with Alex, it’s not always me who is going to be behind the steering wheel (especially when it’s on the right side of the car). He's seizing an opportunity and doing something challenging with his life. Maybe this is my opportunity to do some carpe-diemming of my own—to force myself out of my comfort zone, to start writing the Great American novel (??), to learn London on my own terms.

I wanted the unknown and I got it. Now, physician, heal thyself.