46

Oh no, it is the day of the annual birthday portrait pictures, and I haven't slept in a week. My eyeballs feel like they're made of fire and sandpaper.

I will update with decent photos later. Today we get work toilet selfies. 

bad outtake for authenticity

45 was a transition year. I started prying open the escape hatch, spending all my money and PTO on travel, tasting the air in different places, looking for home. I focused on getting better at painting, trying to level up with classes and workshops and research, making lists, forming plans. Now I am closing the book on the first 45 years, and opening up the next. 

There are a lot of balls in the air, and I feel very close to ducking and letting them all fall on my head, but I will NOT. I can make this happen. Tickets are bought. Airbnb is booked for a few nights in St. John's while we buy a truck. Rental cottage is being secured for 2 months while we close on a house. Realtor is in a flurry of communication with the broker, the broker is in a flurry of communication with the lenders, the lenders are acting like it's soooo hard to do international sales even though it's totally normal. A lawyer still has to get involved in all this. I can't get my brain to stop lighting up and scrolling like an arrival/departure sign at the airport as it adjusts to all the moving pieces of information. Once I finalize the contract for the rental, I'll have an address, and once I have an address I can get insurance set up for the hypothetical truck, and register for MCP numbers, and get Zenny into school. I keep remembering things to do and panicking, then talking myself back through it all step by step. I feel like the rug is going to get pulled out from under me at any moment, that my dreams will be dashed, or that I'll get there and my piece of shit truck will break down and we'll freeze to death on the side of the road, or that the caretaker at the cottage will be an ax murderer (he's not, he's the cousin of my friend's boss, but YOU NEVER KNOW).

I need sleep.

First, though: dinner at my favorite restaurant, and a cake made by my mother. Am I ready for Thanksgiving? No, I am not. But there is a bird in the fridge and potatoes in the cupboard, so we'll figure it out.