Impossible Readiness

My sweet Leo turned one year old last week, to which the internet replied, “great, does this mean you’ll be a little less obsessed with your dog now?” and to that I replied, “never.” Leo was my second ever life-altering impulse buy, the first being a life in New York. It’s crazy to me that you can just buy a living thing that becomes part of your family, but thanks to one too many to-go margaritas and a quick Google search, I gave puppyfinder.com my credit card info and voila- it’s a boy! Three weeks later, a friend and I took an Uber to a gas station just outside of the Newark Airport to hopefully get a puppy or discover I’d been scammed out of $900. Leo didn’t let me sleep for two months but somehow came to me pre-trained to pull me towards gorgeous men so it was a fair tradeoff. Despite being extremely tired and missing what it was like to pee without an animal laying between my ankles, I’d look at this offensively cute thing on four legs and wonder what took me so long.

I paraded Leo around the neighborhood like I was completely oblivious to how perfect he was, getting stopped every ten yards by another person falling in love with my dog. “And you’re doing it alone!? I could never! Good for you! It just doesn’t fit my lifestyle, ya know!” I probably wasn’t totally ready to get a puppy alone, just like I wasn’t totally ready to get divorced and learn how to reset the cable modem on my own, or how I wasn’t totally ready to move to New York and downsize from four-story living to a matchbox with a bed inside. 

A therapist would have fun analyzing these wins I wasn’t ready for and the symbolic security blankets I carried with me. In no particular order:

Running my first race- I finished in personal-record time, ran with lipgloss in my sock to reapply for the finishline photo.

Pausing life to flea to Australia- I fell so deeply in love with a place, I started convincing myself mum and dad would fly 32 hours to visit if I decided to stay with just the bag I packed- the side effects of sharing air with a Hemsworth at brekky. 

Divorcing my best friend- It took six years of hard work before we bravely gave each other our freedom back. Marriage was a limb I was terrified of tearing off, but divorce was the kindest thing we ever did for each other and two fine people ended up perfectly fine. 

Moving to New York- This felt like going back to college with higher limits on my credit cards. Living in Gramercy Park with an unsavory roommate, calling my mom every day to assure her I ate and my coat was warm enough, falling asleep to city noise and adopting my east coast sports teams quickly, in case I had to pledge allegiance to one on the spot. I had no idea if New York would be a three month experimental sebatical or a home. 

Getting a dog. Alone- what’s the big deal. It’s a dog, not a baby. Getting Leo felt like giving myself what I wasn’t finding. I wanted a puppy but it’s probably not a good idea to jump into that solo. I was craving partnership and the Peter Pans I expertly picked weren’t ready for me or any commitment to a living thing, shared goldfish were probably even out of the question. It was this backwards equation in my brain- I want a puppy, no one I’ve let into my life could handle a puppy, and I might also be a stubborn, over-eager puppy thirty-something playboys aren’t ready for because it doesn’t particularly suit their lifestyle. So if I needed a home and Leo needed a home, we’d be each other’s home. And that’s where we landed together- home.

This, here, is a list of anecdotal proof that my worst laid plans have all worked out, one way or another. 

I have a confession to make- I’ve been writing this blog for several months now and each week, I leave a little piece of my heart on here for the world to read but when it comes to writing the book I can’t finish, it’s not that I physically can’t finish it, it’s that I’m not ready to find that home feeling all over again in this new limb I’ve grown as a writer. This book has become my comfortable, sexless marriage (sorry, ex husband). It conveniently exists, it brings me joy knowing it exists but we’re not about to mail any Christmas cards or make any grand announcements together. 

It’s easier to keep writing this darn book at a record-slow pace because once it’s done, I have to hustle for the words I brewed from my heart, with countless hours of swaddling myself on my couch with my laptop, trying to make myself believe I could cut my teeth as a blogger turned published writer. (Professional writers probably don’t Google phrases like “cut my teeth” immediately after writing them, just to make sure they’re using them right.)

Saying the words “I’m not ready” is an embarassing admission for someone like myself to make- someone who spent a lifetime refusing to let anyone see I don’t always have a plan. The last time I probably said those words outloud was likely during some sort of on-stage audition. “I wasn’t ready, can I start again.” You can start again or you can keep going and hope real hard that how you finish is so damn impressive, no one -not even you- remembers how cringey the beginning was. 

I wish I could navigate life with the just-wing-it confidence of a daytrader who hops a flight to Miami because it might drizzle this weekend. I’m writing this like I’m only-now coming to this conclusion- the things you avoid doing because you’re not ready or don’t have entirely figured out are the shortcuts to self discovery that only come from risk and microdosing. I can’t speak for the latter but the first option seems to pay off.

Comfort and courage don’t get to hold hands and skip together, it’s an either/or sorta thing. I write this to kick my own ass as much as I hope to kick yours- Get a puppy, or just start with a goldfish. No one’s ready so go do the hard thing.