Last night I met Courtney and Mary for margaritas and goodbyes. And then I spent the subsequent 45 minutes in tears. Goodbyes are probably the worst things ever.
I get highly attached to my running pals. We share a lot of miles and a lot of bonding and a lot of bitching out on the roads. So, I sat and twirled my chip in a bowl of salsa while the two of them continued to plan where they'd run next and which classes they'd take at the Y. Together.
This move is bittersweet. I get a fresh start in a familiar place, with my family and their dog and a husband. But I have to say goodbye. A lot. And I suck at goodbyes.
When I was 18, on the eve of my move to college, I spent the night saying goodbye to my closest girlfriends. And, man, that sucked. I remember crying myself to sleep.
That's the last time a move has been so difficult. I'm not just leaving my job. I'm saying goodbye to my coworkers. To my friends, and one of my best friends. I'm saying goodbye to the town, and to The Middle.
It feels worse than a breakup. I don't want to hear people talk about what they're doing next week, because I won't be here. I don't want to hear mention of this town or this newspaper, because they're not mine anymore.
It sort of makes my heart hurt. Because I'm a baby. And so I'll probably need just a little bit more time to be sad about it.