Eight years ago yesterday Erin and I moved into an apartment above a funeral home on Southport Avenue in Chicago on a day that reached a high of six degrees. Only Erin had a job as I was well in the midst of a funk about what I wanted to do with my life, a funk which had begun a few years earlier just prior to graduating from college. We were both 25, married for six months, and both in need of a good dose of change.
We moved to a city that I’d only ever been to once, and that was two weeks prior to find a place to live. We already knew two people that lived there, so we met people pretty easily, though only a few would become friends. It would be seven more months before I got a job which, I couldn’t have known at the time, would lead me on a direct path to dismissing the corporate world and opting for culinary school.
At that time I was a fussy eater, and worse was proud of being so. For both of us there were no children in our future, ever. We were having way too good of a time, and even with the mild hardships that came we were still fairly privileged, as we still are (something I am thankful for each day).
Eight years on from that cold day in Chicago we found ourselves exploring Durham on a day that temperatures reached 58 degrees higher than six. Six months ago we moved to Chapel Hill where we essentially knew no one. Once again we moved without me having a job, but this time with much less stress.
Eight years on our lives are so far from what we could have predicted as 25 year olds. It’s so easy for people to get caught up in planning for the future that we forget to enjoy what the point is, which is to actually enjoy the present, enjoy being alive. Here’s hoping for another unpredictable eight years.