I was meant to be moving to New York last February, and then last March, then April, after which June, until the most exciting adventure I’d never been on got shelved altogether.
My boyfriend, M, sent me flowers with a note that read: ‘There will be other adventures.’
But not, I thought, as I smelled the roses, adventures like a 3.5 month job swap that would see me parachuted into a job on Features at The New York Post and its quarterly Page Six Magazine.
And then… and then…
In April, my editor called me in for a meeting to say that the adventure was back on, if I were interested. Which, well, I wasn’t. My not-so-serious relationship had turned into a really-quite-serious relationship, and I’d already put plans to buy a flat on hold. If I took up the offer, I would return two years after I had first been asked to go.
Fortunately for me, my clever ed suggested I fill out the necessary exchange forms and see how I felt later in the year. Which I did. And now it’s not just later in the year, but next year, and 11 days ’til lift-off. So those January blues that everyone’s got? Yeah, I haven’t got those. Though they have been replaced by a throbbing ball of anxiety that sits somewhere between my belly button and my throat and threatens to burst when I think that the week after next, I’ll be clocking on for my first day at 1211 Avenue of the Americas. Gulp. Wish me luck.