“23 was the best year of my life,” my friend would quip.
A while ago, I wrote a post about being 23, a conflict of emotions leading up to the impending season finale of my American dream.
The questions haven’t stopped.
The curiousity tension.
The answers to what’s next.
But I’m surprisingly contented, maybe because I’m no longer seeing myself moving every year. There is still some culture shock though: my dialects are barely passable and I still drive on the wrong side of the road (God, help me.)
I would love to be committed to something. A career. A partner. A location. But I know I’m young, years ahead for me to explore, too soon for me to settle. My path will change the moment I find comfort, and I should learn to acknowledge those circumstances.
I have yet to meet up with old peers, and find my fun routine in this place. So far, there is that occasional gym place my friend and I would be, that shopping mall hangout, at rare times, dinner outings, and at even rarer times, after-dinner outings.
My supervisor has been the nicest mentor I could ever ask for. My nick name has replaced my actual name. I get free lunches and Starbucks coffee sometimes, which is essential for the financially-challenged. But I learned the most from the wisdom he imparts.
Maybe I can’t be wild and free the same way I was in the States. Life is different with a curfew at 10. I miss my night drives and runs. I miss that spontaneous solo drive to Chicago and feeling grateful that my phone didn’t explode from the over usage of GPS.
With Thanksgiving coming up in the States, there should be a lot more that I wish I could experience again.
For the first time in a while, the unknown excites me.
I will wait.