The possibility of moving to a small town with dramatically lower crazy per square inch, particularly and especially of the so-called progressive neo-luddite variety is slowly getting more real as various obstacles dwindle.
With that dwindling comes contemplation of what I'd be leaving behind - a best buddy that I know I'll stay in contact with (but only see in person a few times a year, at best), and other friends. Two delightful nieces. And, shallow as it may be of me, one of Seattle's few remaining good points is the burgeoning culinary culture - one delightful stopping point after another.
I was out last night with Best Buddy...and actually got out on the dance floor. The notion of 4 hours (+) to the nearest gay bar (and similar dancing opportunities) - but the truth is, I think I'll miss the restaurants more. And getting to hang out with Best Buddy every weekend, more yet.
An occasional night out with friends, or sitting up over beverages and noshes while laughing at the world may be dramatically less likely to produce Mr. Right - but the odds of, with luck and a fair bit of effort, finding a few scraps of joy whilst struggling to become a better man each day seem rather better than spending in a bar full o' hotties - and less likely to erupt in seven different kinds of drama delivered by the Llama Airborne Division.
Change, particularly for us habit-hobbled types, is a bit scary. But - sitting in the same rut, doing the same thing, expecting a different result is simply insanity.
And truth be told - the elder I care for rapidly is ceasing to be able to afford to live in Seattle, and I could likely do better working in a stop'n'rob so long as it offered health insurance.
Fretting. It's what we do.