Yesterday I resigned from my job.
I moved to Sydney in March 2006 to be with my then-boyfriend. It was a horrible two-stage move, where all our stuff was in storage in Bathurst for a few months and then we lugged it all the way to Sydney on the back of trailers with the help of my parents, if I remember correctly. I was armed with nothing but an ambiguous arts degree and the sense that the move was right because leaving the Central West for Sydney was a thing that people my age did.
Like generation after generation of our townsfolk before us, we migrated towards the Inner West. We lived in Marrickville, on the cusp of the then more desirable Newtown. We rented a series of fairly dank, incredibly hot, cockroach-infested apartments over the next few years.
Sydney wasn’t fun, it was sweaty and expensive.
I went on to live alone for the first time in a sunny space, before moving into a share-house in Newtown, where I was when I met B and we deciding to throw our lot in together and shift to the suburbs, where we currently pay too much rent for a house on an artery road to the M5.
I’ve never liked Sydney. I’ve actively hated Sydney. It’s too humid, too expensive, too crowded, too difficult to get anywhere. Every summer since I moved here, I have promised myself it would be the last, and for the time being, it is.
I want to really dig my teeth into my psychology study, so one evening recently B and I sat down and tried to work out how that could happen. B doesn’t mind Sydney and his career has really blossomed here, so his ideal scenario would be staying. Mine was moving back to Bathurst, one of my favourite cities, to live close to my uni and indulge in starry nights and a relaxed pace.
In typical me fashion (the me who didn’t realise you don’t need to save up for an entire holiday and only then book it, which is why I didn’t travel to America until my late-20s), we had a conversation that went a little like this:
Me: “If we had a time machine, I could go back in time and study and then go forward in time and meet back up with you.”
B: “There’s another way.”
Me: “You’re right. First I should research if someone has created a time machine and what it costs.”
B: “No, it’s simpler than that.”
Me: “… I never study? You quit your job and I quit my job and we lose everything and I still don’t study?”
B: “Nope. Fairly simple. Does not end in time travel or disaster.”
Me: “Does not end in disaster? Everything can end in disaster! I live every day knowing disaster could strike at any moment and ruin everything!”
We decided to do both. Over the next little while, we’ll pack up our house and put it into storage (oh, the dreaded two-stage move). I’m going to stay with my parents and B will visit on weekends. Once I have a job, we’ll find a house to rent in Bathurst and I’ll live there full-time, B part-time. When he’s not there, I’ll study. On the weekends we’ll do what we haven’t done in a long time: Relax.
Both of us are feeling very calm for a huge decision made only a few days ago. Well, B is very calm, I have become incredibly invested in the Alicia Florrick/Will Gardner love affair and I doubt my heart will ever recover. I’ve already stockpiled tissues in preparation.