Rooted

I can't help but be struck with an incredible, all-consuming jealousy each time I talk to a friend who has summer plans to leave the country. It's not lady-like, it's not becoming, and--hell--it's not really even rational. But I CANT.HELP.IT.

Notice the title of my blog? "Knock Around the World." Very apt for my blog last summer (nhaca.tumblr.com), when my itinerary was: DC > Seattle > Taipei > Saigon > Nha Trang > Hoi An > Da Nang > Hue > Saigon > Shanghai > Hangzhou > Nanjing > Guangzhou > Saigon > Siem Reap > Phnom Penh > Saigon > Taipei > Seattle > DC. There was not a second for rest last summer, and I loved the fear of not knowing what tomorrow would bring just as much as I hated it.

Now, the most exciting question I ponder each night before bed is: "WHO DIES NEXT IN A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE???"
(When creating this blog, I should have changed the name to "Knock Around the Seven Kingdoms". Hah.)

Now, don't get me wrong. I love that I have the time to read for pure pleasure again. I haven't done this in what feels like decades. Everyone I know at Georgetown is beyond stressed and over-committed, but I probably take being over-committed to a new level. Rarely does a day pass during the school year where I don't go to bed exhausted, but I like it this way.

Case in point: I have zero commitments this summer. I'm not even responsible for making my own bed or for feeding myself. And I'm going insane.

How did I become this person??

I remember in high school and middle school and from what little I remember from elementary school the lead up to responsibility-free summer being full of a certain type of impatient, bone-gnawing anticipation. I remember being stuck in god-awful physics class as the fake-Seattle-sun shone dreamily through ceiling-high windows, counting down the days until June-whatever when I wouldn't have to get up at 6am. When the answer to "No plans?" was always "No problem!"

Lucidly, I remember this. But in my brain and in my heart I've forgotten the feeling of being excited for freedom from responsibility.

Again, I ask: HOW DID I BECOME THIS PERSON?
Who is this person who needs to be worked to the bone, who needs to travel thousands of miles to be satisfied? Who refuses to be happy at the prospect of sleeping in late, spending quality time with her family, and breathing in crisp Northwest air?

Me, apparently.

Strange.
Sometimes I look back and don't recognize the girl I was at 14, and other times I look at myself now and don't recognize the woman I've become. I admit to loving the fast-paced, driven, incredibly successful and materialistic east-coast that has become my second home (and perhaps my second identity). But at the same time, I love this slower, dreamy, rugged and all natural west-coast that is my first and true home with a fierce, passionate, and loyal kind of love.

So, in this moment, I will embrace the fact that I am not yet a professional jet setter (though I aspire, I truly do!), go on walks my mother, curl up on my leather poang with a cup of ginseng tea, cry when ***** inevitably dies in "A Clash of Kings," and learn how to be content.

And if I have to force it, I will.