I won’t miss sharing a house with 11 other people.
I will miss those people.
I won’t miss wiping off the remnants of last night’s make up so I can put on today’s.
I will miss wearing a tutu in public. Daily.
I won’t miss carrying a backpack full of clothes everywhere.
I will miss being able to walk everywhere.
I won’t miss exhaustion, no rest, constant scheduled mayhem.
I will miss Phoebe writing my daily schedule and sticking it to the fridge. And I will miss Phoebe, her humour, directness, love of gin and appreciation of wonderful cabaret. I will miss her humouring my nightly checks that it was a good show, and my nightly quests to stalk yet another lesbian comedian.
I won’t miss the songs Jenni makes up before 11am – the most memorable was ‘Oh no my shirt’s still wet’.
I will miss her joyful singing when it occurs at a respectable hour.
I won’t miss the pressure to do and see and much as humanly possible.
I will miss being constantly surrounded by art, music, humour, play, inspiration, and joy.
In a way, I already miss not knowing what this adventure would hold. All that hope and unknown has been replaced by memories and fact. But I am already plotting the next adventure, the next step in this absurd career, this bizarre lifestyle choice. And so the planning and dreaming and wishin’ and hopin’ becomes a constant. And it’s the reason I am doing this. Because despite exhaustion and mess and irritation and nerves and fear and stress and empty bank accounts, the promise of doing something like this again is completely exhilarating.