The steps of a giant

It almost doesn't seem real to me that I no longer live on Figueroa Street. Today was my last official day at The Little Apartment in The Big Yellow House (or at least the last day that was paid for!). And it felt strange. I've spent exactly 7 years in that house (I just figured this out today and think it's so ironic!) and I kept trying to imagine what the apartment would look like empty.

My head was spinning the last few days with mental lists of things that needed to get done, items to be boxed, items to be saved, and what I should keep with me for the next 30 days. It was almost overwhelming, except for the fact that my brain and body seemed to switch into full speed GO mode all of the sudden. I'm not one to consistently use my gym membership. So, I have no idea where that extra amount of energy and focus came from. Let's just call it miraculous. Or half miraculous, as now every single one of my muscles hurt, as if I was the one that moved all that heavy furniture down the flight of stairs.

Yeah, right!

Anyway, back to the apartment: I kept trying to picture what it looked like when I had first moved in. Where had I originally put things? What did I do on my first day there? What did this room look like before I added a bunch of furniture and things to it? All I knew for certain was that the color of that brownish carpet had once been off-white.

It's both funny and disgusting.

After my dad and the truck, full of things that define the last 7 years of my life, pulled away from The Big Yellow House, I just stood in The Little Apartment for what felt like 20 minutes. Although it was probably only 5 minutes. I just stood there and let the memory of what that room and I looked like 7 years ago hit me like a hammer. I was so young then, moving into my own place, with just a handful of new friends at the time, and trying to be brave about all the new steps I was about to take. And then a thought popped into my head: If I could magically snap my fingers and have my "old life" back, everything back in its place, would I do it? Is this something I want anymore? And I decided no. And then I heard a little voice in my head tell me my time there was finished. (I was done!) And wasn't that so much better than still being in a waiting period?

My whole time in that house has been a time of growing up, but it was also a time of waiting. Longest time of waiting I've ever had! And I can't fully describe how I always knew that I was waiting, but I always knew it. There was never a time in that house where I felt like I was moving forward at leaps and bounds. It was always baby steps. Until now. Now I can barely keep up with what feels like the steps of a giant.