What the doctor didn't order, but would have ordered had I gone to the doctor.

When I took my seat at the table amongst a few of my favorite girlfriends on Friday night I knew that nothing had changed. It was my favorite Mexican restaurant, after all. The salsa was the same, still delicious. Tacos, excellent. I licked the sugar off the rim of my margarita glass, and felt like three months hadn't separated me from the place, or my friends.

Nothing had changed because I was still me. Underneath the move, the job that isn't with them, the turmoil that has become life - I still laughed, as if I'd never left. Conversations picked up right where they left off, and I remembered just what it was that made it so difficult to leave.

Pretty much everything. But especially the green salsa.

I spent the weekend in my old city, visiting friends I haven't seen since leaving three months ago. Somehow I managed to leave last night without anyone using a crowbar or the Jaws of Life to pry my body from its kung fu grip.

I hugged old friends, coworkers, bosses. Sang loudly to bad bar music. Mastered the Wii. Stayed up late, slept in longer. Soaked up every second of down time with the girls, and had an impromptu bonding session with my sister, which of course is an entirely different post for another time, complete with bleeding, sweating and creepy middle-aged women with mullets and scrunchies (True story. As good as it sounds).

But every mile of the two-hour ride home last night reminded me just how far away I was. Each mile my smile weakened. My heart beat with less force. I returned to the same apartment, and the only thing alive in it was The Cats (and thank God for that).

But the visit rejuvenated me, and helped me remember who I am.

Which is good, because, you know, sometimes I forget, and there's a good chance you'll find me wandering around, babbling, asking for directions to the mall.