One year ago today, I was wandering down the Las Vegas strip in the mid-morning sunlight with two of my best friends. We were stumbling around in that confused, hazy limbo between hung over and still drunk from the night before. We were armed with vodka-slushies and decked out head-to-toe in green for St. Patrick’s Day. For some reason, we were becoming best friends with everyone on the strip that morning. We took pictures with tiny men dressed up as leprechauns in the doorways of casinos; we overexcitedly screamed out the names of anyone we recognized on the street like it’d been years since we saw them, even though we hardly knew them back at university. For some reason, everyone went to Vegas for our senior year spring break.
Today, I spent the day at a track field with my students, watching them race in the blazing sun from underneath the cool shade of my umbrella. I came home alone, exhausted, and celebrated St. Patty’s Day by pouring myself a glass of wine—when I say glass, I mean a fancy Nalgene bottle. I got a little crazy after that, so I washed the dishes while singing out loud to my iPod. And now, I’m writing you this blog post by the twinkling light of my paraffin lamp, waiting for this bowl of beans next to me to cool down enough to start eating.
Holy shit, how life can change in a year.
It blows my mind to think of what I used to consider “normal”. Things like driving a car to go to the grocery store eight blocks away. Taking a hot shower. Eating cold foods—and drinking cold drinks. Turning on a dishwasher. Worrying about “repeating outfits” too many weekends in a row. Walking to the mailbox at night. Going to drive-thrus.
What blows my mind even more is what I consider normal now. Going to bed at 8:30pm, and waking up at 5am. Seeing a herd of cows walk past the window during class. Peeing in a bucket. Wondering when my unrefrigerated milk and cheese will go bad. Rushing home at dusk so that wild dog won’t chase me again. Fetching water in a bucket.
They say that one thing all human beings crave is routine. Something normal. Even the most globetrotting of types have a general “routine”, whether they notice it or not. The way you brush your teeth. The direction in which you swirl soap in your palms to wash your hands. The side of your head that you start brushing first. The side of your mouth that you chew with first. Anywhere in the world, and you will adhere to these tiny, insignificant personal routines.
Getting over big changes in life is about finding your routine after it’s been unexpectedly taken away. It’s like becoming lost while wandering down a path in the woods. Your heart stops. You panic. You start to wonder where you went wrong, where you turned off the path and how you will get back. Your mind races about what might happen if you’re lost forever—or maybe not forever, but for a while. Do you have cell service? Should you scream for help? How much sunlight is left in the day until you’re stuck in the dark wilderness for the night? What will you eat? Where will you sleep? Is there anyone out there to help you?
Of course, you only know this feeling if you’ve ever had the misfortune of being lost in the woods. Growing up in the piney forests of Colorado, it happened to me a couple of times. Maybe for you, it was getting separated from your parents in the shopping mall when you were 7-years old. Regardless, the feeling is the same. It’s this primal fear of being completely and utterly lost.
But then, suddenly, the rocky ground in front of you vanishes away into a trodden-down path. You recognize that crooked tree on your right, and you know you’ve been here before. Your heart slows down, and one foot automatically follows the other in a sense of recognition, and you’re once again enjoying that walk in the woods. And strangely, an overwhelming sense of happiness takes over, because you know that you’re not alone and lost in the middle of nowhere.
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