So. It’s another week closer to D-Day (departure day, that is).
How am I still feeling? Majorly excited, but also like I’ve been thrown a tiny curve ball, challenging my belief that the timing is actually right. Universe, you sneaky thing, you.
My hairdresser told me this would happen.
Despite obviously not being able to go back on un-handing in my notice (I’ve already been replaced), or refunding my one-way ticket (I’ve read the T&Cs), or extending my lease (the move-out date is fixed), I don’t even want to go back on any of those things either. And I wouldn’t. Which makes the realisation stronger still that there is no going back, but that is equally comforting in a sense to know that the only route is down the path I have chosen.
It’s only sometimes that I get a minuscule shiver of ‘oh crumbs’ when people ask me about really leaving – “Who do you want to come with you to the airport?” – or assuming point-blank that it’s just a holiday – “When you’re back we’ll go to x,y,z…” – and I have to swallow the enormity of the decision, answering “Please no one come with me to the airport or I’ll cry”, and “I can’t promise when I will come back – but come and see me!”
I would say ‘if’ I come back, but I’m not totally heartless. Make sure you save me a place setting at your weddings, obvs, because I will be there. Baby showers, not so much.
As the days pass and I’m doing everything I can to live every moment I have left before I go, chasing the fun and slapping FOMO round the face, I’m holding onto the blind faith that I’m on the right track, that it’s all part of the big plan and, repeating that old adage over and over in my head, what will be will be.
Even though sometimes I want to know what that will be, right now!