It's not that I was unhappy in my youth, but I was restless. As a twenty-something my brain was like a heat-seeking missile constantly searching for some elusive target that would allow me to realize that--"ding ding ding"--this is it! But just what was "it"? A glamorous job that pulled down big bucks with a trendy loft in the City? Or was it a husband, kids and a home in the 'burbs? Maybe "it" was a career as a globetrotting journalist or a Peace Corp volunteer in the Congo. Maybe I was meant to be an entrepreneur with my own bakery or bookstore. I wasn't quite sure. And so I kept looking, anxious and unsettled.
Meanwhile I moseyed through my thirties dabbling in the corporate world, sometimes satisfied and other times convinced that Madonna was living the life I was meant to have.
Then a couple years ago I bought a new home. A townhouse actually, the modest type of place where, not Madonna, but Madonna's personal assistant might reside.
For me it was perfect. Bursting with old-time charm, it had hardwood floors and paned windows with a spectacular view of the valley below. It looked more like a country cottage than the cookie-cutter condo it really was. An added bonus was that the Home Owner's Association didn't have unreasonable pet restrictions like those imposed at my previous residence. This meant I could finally get a dog. And that's just what I did, bringing Elvis, a rescued ex-racer greyhound, into my world. And with my new home and new dog, slowly life started changing.
Instead of planning weekend trips to Lake Tahoe or dining at ritzy restaurants in San Francisco, weekends are now spent repotting plants in my patio garden while Elvis basks in the sun alongside me. I spend more time at The Home Depot than Nordstrom, more concerned about fertilizer than fashion, molly bolts than make-up.
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No longer do I feel the pressure that youth once imposed upon me to keep busy having fun fun fun all the time. I now take pleasure in the simplest of activities: planning a Sunday brunch for friends, cutting roses from my garden, grooming my dog. Cleaning also occupies much of my time. Hardwood floors and dog hair: need I say more? I mop and dust and clean and nest, but gladly, lovingly and without complaint. I am grateful for this little patch of the planet that is my home.
Sometimes friends and I will walk our dogs to the Farmer's Market, where I buy honey from local vendors and sunflowers that stretch three feet high. Other weekends might find me with Elvis at nearby street festivals, helping out at the Golden State Greyhound Adoption booth. I love talking to prospective guardians, educating them about greyhounds and sharing the joy that my dog has brought me. Elvis basks in the attention and I beam like a proud mother.
Not that my social life has come to a complete halt. I still attend concerts with the same level of enthusiasm I did two decades ago. I still enjoy the theater, frequent art house films, dine out, and travel, be it business trips to Chicago or family visits to France. There's just one difference now. In the back of my mind, no matter how good the company or how great the time, there remains one constant, joyful thought:
I can't wait to return home. To my modest little world and the dog who is such an integral part of it.
And suddenly a stint in the Congo or life as Madonna doesn't sound quite so appealing anymore.
Because "ding ding ding" this is it.