[My first time riding a chair lift alone, after my first time snowboarding down a mountain by myself.]
I’ve been systematically battling a general narrowing of my world for years, shouldering open slowly closing doors all around me. These are doors to different things, and while some slammed shut in my face—friendships, jobs, romances—others I’ve managed to prop open with great tenacity.
It all started in the Saratogian tundra—that place where arctic temps reduced outside days to a few pages of the calendar. That was a particularly itchy feeling, knowing you basically didn’t want to be outdoors for a majority of the months. All of a sudden “cozy” was “claustrophobic” and trips to Florida made me feel like I was living some sickly, dusty existence up there. Then, the condo I inhabited started to feel too small—no adjacent patio or yard to get you into the outside air. No outside space that didn’t require an elevator ride or a car ride. It fed a general feeling of disconnect.
Things got narrower. Like, my social circle. Losing a job cut me off from all the friends I’d made in that tiny town. I missed my family. Losing my best friend made it smaller still—seeing her in the sandwich shop would throw me into a full-blown panic, backing out the rear exit wondering if she’d seen me. There was nowhere to hide.
That led me to start browsing real estate websites almost immediately. The condo went on the market, and boom: Vermont. I don’t think life can get smaller than when you’re alone on the top of a mountain all day. Salvation came in the form of Richmond, VA—a dirty apartment and next to no job prospects, but the world opened back up dramatically.
New friends, new jobs, new experiences—it’s been revelatory being here. Walks around the neighborhood felt (and still feel) like exploratory missions with endless possibilities. Friendly faces every time you swing a door open into a restaurant. Social calendars bursting at the seams.
But again, it started to narrow around me. These are the changing tides of life, guys. People move away. Social circles expand and contract. Bartenders change gigs. Friends have babies and fall off the map. You have to reach out and grab newness, like shoving your foot in a door to keep it from slamming shut. And when you have someone in your life who protects you and shields you, an odd side effect can happen: you make excuses. You choose comfort over risk. Something great can end up holding you back.
So in September of last year, I was pretty much left with no choice but ‘new.’ New errythang. I knew I did have one choice, though: how to approach it. I’d like to say I take total credit for a positive outlook and the smooth transition, but I can’t. It took fortitude on my part for sure, but it also took someone else pushing me through those doors—mostly, every time he showed up at mine and rang the bell with a huge smile on his face.
So many firsts lately. First time riding rollercoasters. First time learning to play pool. First time geocaching. First time trail running. First time snowboarding. First time skateboarding.
But it’s not just the firsts. It’s the way they make the world suddenly get huge right before your eyes. And when there’s uncharted territory and someone to explore it with—bigger still.
Have you ever noticed how a small glass of (insert booze of choice) can make an everyday moment a tiny celebration? Or how certain people make a moment into a party?
He makes my world feel infinitely bigger—and it’s been absolutely priceless.
He’s my moveable feast. (And I like him even better than the book.)
I’m ready to blow the doors off this sucker.
-C.
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