That’s what we call it in my house when we start to feel too settled. You know the feelings: when you can go about your daily routines with your eyes closed; when your casual acquaintances become your very best friends; when the guys at the meat counter, and the coffee bar, and the floral department at your grocery store all know you by first name; when you know exactly what time you need to leave and which roads to take, or avoid, to get you where you need to go in any part of town at any given time. You know, when it all starts to feel a little too easy.
I know not everyone can relate to that feeling; moving around frequently, on purpose, takes a certain kind of masochism, er, I mean, dedication and organization. And, I also know that some people live the nomadic life less by choice than by circumstance. But, there are those of us who’ve chosen to live our lives on the move, and some of us even like it.
I get a rush every time the mention of a new opportunity comes up. The words barely leave Steve’s lips and I’m already hitting up Realtor.com and Google Maps. It doesn’t matter that it’s probably not going to happen, I need to know house prices and commute times, STAT! Next, I open my excel spreadsheet (yes, I have an excel spreadsheet template set up to compare two locales) and start populating the cells with pertinent information, from currency exchange rates to average grocery, gas, and telecomm prices per month. My imagination kicks in and I’m already six months in to our new assignment (because we all know that the first six months are a roller coaster ride between “OMG I love this new place!” and “Ugh, I can’t believe we gave up our comfortable, easy life for this!”), where I’ve figured out where nearly everything goes in the house, and I know exactly how long it takes to get to the grocery store and coffee shop, oh, and of course the kids are settled in to their school by then, that’s important, too.
It’s not always easy, and with the prospect of each new opportunity, I promptly forget the stress and strain involved in packing up our lives and moving all over again – even if it’s not actually us doing the heavy lifting. To make life a little smoother, I have recently instituted a “two Christmases” rule where we are required live in the same house for at least two Christmases. So far, so good, but that could change. One thing I’ve learned to rely on is that the moment life starts to really make sense, that’s when it’s about to up and change. Occasionally, that doesn’t happen, and we stay put for a few years, and we get securely entrenched in the local life, complete with great friends, a home that looks and feels how we want it to, kids who are happy and thriving: by all accounts we feel like we’re “home.”
That’s when I get itchy feet.
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