2015 was such an incredible year. I spent the entirety of it in Australia, save for a 3-week jaunt to Indonesia. It was a beautiful blend of routine and adventure that saw me settling down anywhere from a few days to a few months at a time, exploring my surroundings and then going on roadtrips and excursions in-between.
I’ve just moved into a share house in Camberwell, an eastern suburb of Melbourne, where I’ll be living for 4 weeks. Tonight, I’ll be sleeping in my 35th bed this year.
You guys, I just turned 30 last month. 30. Remember when we were kids and thought 30 was OLD? I mean geez, my parents were younger than that when they had me.
When I look back at 2014, I think: Man, I worked hard and accomplished a lot.
I’ve long been a preacher in support of living a balanced life. It’s why you’ll never find me staying late at the office or bragging about how I went to the gym 6 out of 7 days last week.
On January 1, New York and I celebrated our 6 year anniversary. Except, unlike previous years, it didn’t feel like much of a celebration. I wasn’t happily toasting to another year of living in New York City – I was wondering how many more years I’d be ringing in here, and what would come next.
We first met 5 years ago.
I was on a 2-week roadtrip up the west coast, reveling in my newfound freedom, eager to see and do as much as I could – simply because I could.
I remember how I used to spend my childhood summer vacations moping around the house. “I’m booooooored!” I’d moan daily.
“Go outside. Find a new hobby!” my mom would urge. To which I’d roll my eyes and find some way to kill time before we were allowed to turn on the TV in the evening.