I've got seven hours of work remaining before I leap off the cliff of gainful employment into miles of virgin time. The middle of a recession probably isn't the best moment to do this, but it's kind of tough to keep your job when you are moving 10 hours and 14 minutes away.
I'll meander through those last seven hours, and a month or two later my lease will be up, and then there will be nothing much tethering me to earth beyond a passel of relationships and a one third of a musical career.
You'd think this would be freeing. In fact, I'm scurrying around as fast as I can trying to tie myself down again. I'm trolling Craigslist to find a place to stash my Kitchen Aid and my wind chimes, pinpointing library branch locations, firing off query letters in search of a new job to long for the end of.
It's like I've escaped from prison, clawing my way through the dirt behind a poster of Sophia Loren a la The Shawshank Redemption, only, when I finally break into sweet air, to turn around and crawl back home.
Stockholm Syndrome? Or an acknowledgement that, despite the earnest yodelings of the Founding Fathers, Steppenwolf, and other advocates for (non-lawyerly) disbarment, freedom ain't all that? Maybe we're not born to be wild; maybe good fences do make good neighbors; maybe on the road is just another word for lost.