(im)patience is a virtue

In twenty-four hours, my Ohio-residing, tell-it-like-it-is, please-pass-the-ketchup, pantsuit-sporting, much-missed (by me) friend, Leah, will be arriving on my doorstep for the first time in eleven months. And, as I’ve now told her twice in consecutive emails, I might pee my pants from the excitement. And like it.

It’s been a long effing year. Seriously. A long year that flew by far too quickly somehow, and left me in a frustratingly familiar state of uncertainty and ambivalence about my future. And as the year approaches its inevitable end, I vacillate between hating myself for what feel like wasted days and forgiving myself for my myriad mistakes.

I know to regret is to misuse the past and the (not always obvious) growth it has fostered. So I refuse to waste time feeling guilty for actions I’ll never undo—the ill-advised affairs, the surrenders to sadness, the too-much Maker’s I’ve consumed in recent months—and choose to appreciate my frequently foolish behavior for the sometimes ridiculous lessons I’ve learned.

On Sunday, this complicated, unpredictable, emotionally challenging year will finally be over. I can’t wait to celebrate with a woman whose support has been often unwarranted but always consistent. A woman who can party like it’s her job and never fails to bring the fun. A woman whose presence alone guarantees a good time.

Leah, hurry up and get here. Oregon is eagerly anticipating your return. And by Oregon, I mostly mean me.