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I can’t get over how long ago this was. I remember that crocheted afghan on my granny’s couch. I remember those pink glasses. I remember the little braid mom always put in my hair. I remember the purple turtleneck and the completely mismatched pants. I remember my baby brother, so adorable and cheek-pinchable.

I remember it all like it was yesterday, and yet it wasn’t; it was long enough ago that I’m now crocheting my own afghans and am a couple dozen pairs of glasses older. And my baby brother towers over me, all 6’1 of him.

I love moments like this one, frozen in time.

Here we are again, sitting on the precipice of another holiday season. Another year drawing to a close, slowly but surely.

For some reason, though this is the time the leaves and the grass and the flowers die, it’s inevitably when I wake up. With a start. And realize the year is leaking through my hands like water and I can’t hold it in, no matter how hard I try. And I have a moment of panic, because where did these months go? And I find myself hoping I’ve been living them, experiencing them.

For the most part, I really think I have been. You know, living and being and doing. Like the rest of us, I survived the Winter From Hell. With a little help from some fun skiing and sledding and snow angel adventures. Oh, and a quick trip to South Carolina to see my sweet Kelly get married.

Then, in April, I ran a 5k. My first run since throwing my knees and hip out of whack (Gah, I sound like I’m 80) training (poorly) for the super ridiculously awesome Cooper River Bridge Run in 2008 and another one in 2009. I had sort of sworn off running and figured my short-lived, completely UN-illustrious running career was over for good. But then an opportunity arose and I ran and it wasn’t great but it was good and I did it and it was rewarding to finish a run yet again.

And then in May we flew to Boston to visit a dear friend. And that was AMAZING. And I already want to go back. Walking the Freedom Trail was a more moving experience than I ever expected it to be. Being in a city that shaped so much of our shared life course as Americans was intensely fascinating.

In July there was a trip down South, to Tennessee and the Carolinas. And that time with friends and family and all that sweet tea and those biscuits and gravy? Mmm mmm mmm. Good for the soul. And then there was time with hubs’ family. Also quite good for the soul. As family time so often is.

And then, oh hey, another 5k in September. Crazy.
Now here we are. Greeting October. (Hi, October!) and almost a year at my beloved job. And approaching a dear friend’s wedding.

My heart is so full and I can’t wait for what’s to come.

As a kid, moving from town to town and state to state was my normal, my sense of familiar – like lollipops from a bank teller or the sound of the ice cream truck in summer. We moved dozens of times. From Alabama to Tennessee. From Tennessee to Arizona. From Arizona to Tennessee. To somewhere else in Tennessee. To yet another tiny Tennessee town. To the Netherlands. Back to Tennessee. To South Carolina. And so on. And so on. And so on…

I envied kids who grew up with the same group of friends, going through life together. Riding bikes and skinning knees. Acne and first kisses. Getting older, growing into long limbs. Becoming who they were meant to be and remembering what one another looked like when they were awkward and pimply and wearing braces.

Somewhere along the line, something shifted in me though. And while a large part of me still loves the idea of stability, of an unwavering, unchanging day-to-day, an even larger part of me loves a new setting. A new challenge. New faces and places.

My absolute favorite thing in the world is going somewhere new for the first time and meeting the people who call that place home. Whether it’s a quaint village nestled on the hilly Italian coastline or a one-stoplight town smack dab in the middle of Wisconsin. There’s just something exhilarating about discovering, about being my own brand of diplomat, bringing stories of where I’ve been and looking to meet people who can tell me their own.

This wanderlust is why I thought I might never want to put down roots somewhere. I mean, putting down roots just sounds so permanent, right? A plant, a tree, a shrub with roots digging deep into the soil and keeping it grounded, keeping it in place. Being kept in one place is a notion that frightens me. What if I can’t fit this place? What if this place can’t fit me? What if my leaves don’t flower and bloom?

But planting roots is exactly what I did. What we did. What I couldn’t have done had it not been for the other part of that “we.” Because I finally decided that wherever my husband is, well, that’s really my home. That’s really where my roots are. And, if I’m being honest, Wisconsin has grown on me.

Milwaukee’s become a place I can’t imagine not knowing. A place I love being a young professional. A place I feel like I just might matter. Plus, I really like the beer and cheese here. And the people aren’t so bad either.

Here’s to one month in a house, planting my roots.

Man, another year has done its thing. Started out full of promise and unknowns and went on to deliver lots of good, bad, ugly, wonderful and everything in between. And zipped by so quickly it seems scarcely possible it consisted of 12 complete months.

I have to say, I’m pretty thankful for 2013. I traveled to Florida, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, California, Illinois and Indiana. I got a new job – a job I’ve been dreaming of for years. I learned how to ski. I saw Chicago on Broadway and was left humming “All That Jazz” for weeks. I sipped wine in Napa. I read incredible books that left me breathless and speechless. I continued to fall even more in love with social media, meeting a number of fascinating new people because of it. I completed a 50-mile bike ride. And, I celebrated turning 30 with one of my best friends in the world. I am one lucky, lucky girl.

Hey there, 2014. Let’s do this thing.

I’m not used to feeling conflicted after a concert.

I’m used to feeling conflicted about when to decorate for Christmas. Do I listen to my inner choir of carolers singing, “Deck the Halls As Soon As Humanly Possible?” Or do I hold fast to reason and wait until after Thanksgiving? I’m used to feeling conflicted about cookies. Do I give in to my innermost desire and eat every cookie in a half-mile radius? Or do I continue to remind myself that a person can’t exist on a diet of cookies alone?

I’m not used to feeling conflicted after a concert. When I go to a concert, I’m deciding to spend hard-earned money, and a chunk of time carved out of my day, with one of my favorite musicians. I’m seeing them in concert because I know in my heart it will be worth it. And, really, it almost always is. Yet, after seeing Matt Nathanson perform in Chicago, I’m conflicted. I’m happy and sad and frustrated all at the same time.

I am a lover of 99.9 percent of the shows I’ve been to. Green Day kicked ass live when I saw them a dozen years ago. Bush, Tim McGraw, Jimmy Eat World rocked it. The Barenaked Ladies were amazing. Incubus, Elton John, and Brandi Carlile were incredible. I went to see Dave Matthews Band instead of attending my senior prom, which was, without a doubt, one of the best decisions of my young life. My favorite shows ever? Butch Walker, Keith Urban, Sugarland, Bon Jovi, Will Hoge and needtobreathe.

The musicians I love typically make me fall in love with them even more when I see them live. And Matt provided some amazing moments that I’m so thankful I experienced. First of all, he sounds incredible live. His voice is strong and clear, his band is talented, and together, they sound really big, crisp and wonderful. Additionally, it was ah-mazing to hear Car Crash and Bulletproof Weeks live. I love those songs, and he delivered beautiful renditions of these. But, Matt broke my music-loving heart, because he committed the 3 cardinal concert sins:

1) He played a short set.
2) He let his ego overtake the stage and overpower the performance.
3) He bashed another musician.

1) It’s rare I’ve seen anyone play less than an hour and a half. In fact, most every headliner I’ve seen plays close to two hours. At The Rave in Milwaukee recently, Will Hoge played an energetic set that lasted nearly two and a half hours and left my feet sore and my throat sore and my heart filled to bursting. Flash forward to The Riveria in Chicago.

Because of terrible traffic issues caused by a nearby fire, we got to Matt Nathanson’s show after his set had already started. I was a bit surprised he’d already started, because we arrived at 9; but based on his comments, he had already played one or two songs before we got there. He ultimately went on to play for about an hour more, wrapping up one of the shortest sets I’ve ever seen. He then ended what had turned out to be a pretty predictable set with an equally  predictable two-song encore of his two biggest commercial hits: Faster and Come On Get Higher.

2) And then, there was his ego. Matt’s ego ballooned every time he told another witty little anecdote that was intended to be endearing. He talked nearly as much as he played. And, to be fair, I think that’s what a lot of the audience came for. I guess it’s part of his appeal for many. He’s cute, he’s goofy, he writes coffeehouse ballads girls love, and he tells lots of jokes that are intended to make him seem relatable and fun and like someone you’d want to have a beer with. I get that. But that’s not why I go to concerts. I go to hear music until my eardrums are vibrating and my toes are going numb and my face feels like it’s going to break from smiling and shouting and singing.

3) Matt made me the saddest, I think, when he made a jab at another band. Not just any band, mind you, but Bon-Freakin’-Jovi. Having seen Bon Jovi in concert three times, I can tell you, they’re stellar musicians and performers. Matt was prefacing a song with a long-winded intro – which turned out to be a common practice of his – about how he wrote the song as an homage to up-by-your-bootstraps, young, star-crossed lovers a-la Bruce Springsteen, not to be confused with his lesser musical compatriots from New Jersey, Bon Jovi. He posited that Bon Jovi has two good songs and that the band really just isn’t all that great in comparison to The Boss. No matter your personal opinion, I’m not quite sure what the point of this statement was. You don’t talk shit about other musicians. You just don’t. It makes you look small and petty. And really, nobody cares about your opinion.

And I’m sure Matt doesn’t care about my opinion. But while I heard some songs I love and experienced a few moments of musical bliss, I was mostly just let down. It’s safe to say, I won’t be going out of my way to see Matt Nathanson again, since he didn’t go out of his way for me.

Chances to start fresh don’t come along very often.

We sign up for cable/satellite/cell phone/cool-stuff-in-a-box-that-gets-delivered-monthly service. And, even though we don’t get the love, comfort and reassurance we were certain we would from Storage Wars/Instagram/Barkbox (how is that a thing?), we’re seemingly stuck in this soul-sucking relationship forever. It’s like a boyfriend we’ve grown comfortable with; we just stick it out, because, you know, it could be worse, right?

Maybe it’s a food thing. Like, we eat spaghetti for dinner every Friday night. Because we’ve done it ever since mom declared Friday night Spaghetti Night (“Spaghetti Night: Coming to theaters near you! A tale of love and longing on a plate!”) when we were kids. We can’t possibly change that up. Our stomachs would surely retaliate. Or, hey, how about the gym. You know, the place that perpetually smells like sweaty socks and makes us feel like crying in our water bottles because we’re not thin enough, muscular enough, rich enough, cool enough? But yeah, we keep going. Because, hey, maybe one day, bro.

And yet, despite the comfort of spaghetti and exorbitantly-priced cable, sometimes – once in a while – we have to change the routine. We have to make the choice to reach for something bigger, better. (And hasn’t all that exercise at the gym prepared us fabulously for said reach?)

Every time I’ve ever tried something new or opened a door to a new possibility, I’ve been rewarded. Inevitably at first I have to deal with feelings of queasiness like I’ve just downed a bad Mickey D’s meal (is there such thing as a good one?). I have to face down enough feelings of self-doubt to give any lovesick, swooning teenage girl a run for her money. I have to convince my routine-loving, change-wary self that sometimes, sometimes change is good. (Pizza on Fridays? Why, that sounds delicious and equally marinara-y.)

I’ve left the job I’ve held for the last two years in PR, and I’m returning to my first love: editorial. And I can’t wait to embrace this shiny new change with all my might. I might have to have something covered in marinara to celebrate.