Home, hills, and adulthood.

I've inhabited my new apartment for 11 days, and a few things are surprising.

For starters, I don't miss my old apartment. Though, I think that might be the result of "out of sight, out of mind." I haven't been back -- not yet. I left in a rush, tired from hauling furniture and boxes, screaming cats in tow. I hardly glanced back before I shut the door the last time. I haven't been back to the neighborhood, so I've had no chance to think, "Aww, remember that? And remember that one time? And that balcony? And that other thing?" 

It'll happen, undoubtedly. Just not yet. Out of sight, out of mind is incredible.

Secondly, all of my things are in my new home, tucked away in their respective places. The apartment is beautiful -- and big! I have so much room. My couch, in all its big, red, smooshy glory, is big, red and smooshy. It's amazing. But it doesn't feel like home yet. I've equated it to a hotel. I feel like it's temporary. A spacious, fancy place to sleep and live until it's time to check out and go back home after stealing a few toiletries. Also there are cats there, which is pretty killer. But it's not home. Not yet.

Maybe I need Chicken to puke on the floor a few more times or someone to drag a toilet down the road to make things feel a little more cozy and familiar. Not sure. But I'll get there. 

I've stretched out my running legs in the new neighborhood, though, and that's certainly a change. By "change" I mean "hills." Everywhere. Everything is a hill. All the things. Wanna go down that road? It's a hill. How about over there? HILL. Turn left, hill. HILLS! Hills are my running weakness, but I'll be damned if I haven't already become a stronger runner in 11 days. See? The silver lining.  

Speaking of running, I'm racing a half marathon on Saturday. I haven't raced a half marathon since this exact race a year ago. It's my favorite local race, and the half marathon is one of my favorite distances. Racing, on the other hand, is hard. Racing is different than running, you see. Running is fun and enjoyable. Racing is hard. Always hard. Being uncomfortable for nearly two hours (or four, or one) is hard. Every time. Never fails.

I've been given a goal to shoot for, which fills my innards with nerves. Excitement, too. But mostly nerves. I've been doing speed work in my training, and knocking it out of the ballpark, but I'm still nervous. It's like anything, really. You prepare, you put in the work, and eventually you've gotta see what you can do with it. Mostly I see the finish line, a shiny, new medal, a beer in my hand, and a few of my closest friends, but also, hopefully, a finish time to prove to myself that the effort is paying off. And if not? Hey! Beer! 

Fingers crossed. And toes. Especially toes. And if still not, I've got another chance at it next month. We'll just be crossing our appendages for a while. 

In other news, someone on Twitter told me earlier this week that I'd make a really good 15-year-old girl. It was a joke, of course. I forget why the exchange even happened. Likely because I ran my mouth about unicorns or kittens or, apparently, One Direction (don't ask). I agreed with him because, well, he's not wrong. But taking offense was my knee-jerk reaction.

In my head I ran through the list of all the reasons I'm a goddamn grownup. The list went something like: yawn, bore, zzz, boring, snooze, etc., etc. Of course I'm an adult. That's what happens when you grow up: responsibilities and careers and drinking craft beer because Miller Light tastes like piss. I can adult with the best of them. 

But I can also be me. And no offense to the mature, responsible adult in me, but I'll be hanging onto my young heart a while longer. Life is more enjoyable that way. 

And for your viewing pleasure, Chicken, learning how to stair: 

Big stairs, little kitty

Big stairs, little kitty