The Drop Off

Since you’ve taken the time to find me and visit my blog, I feel I owe you a bit of a story. First, please know that all names have been changed. If I reference you in this blog, it’ll be by significant nickname and you’ll figure out who you are. I have enough training in Law to know I shouldn’t call anyone by their proper names, lest I accidentally incriminate you. Or me!

Here’s the shtick: I am knowingly and willfully quitting a perfectly good job in contract administration, leaving my home, family, and amazingly friendly neighborhood, and entering into a commuter marriage for the sake of a career. Granted, I’ve been training for this career for years and have been doing every resume-building activity on God’s green earth, but I’m very aware of what I’m sacrificing.

I’m usually pretty unshakable. I’ve been through enough crap in my life to know when I truly have to sweat something. However, I’ll admit that I'm a bit nervous. I spoke to a co-worker today who works at another hospital in the system, in the Hammond area. I had a bunch of leads on quasi-safe, semi-convenient, downright expensive apartments in the northwest Indiana area. My friend at work, Coach (only because she has a noted infatuation with Coach handbags; no reference to the corny 80’s sitcom of the same name), ‘shot’ down all my ideas. She said that if I didn’t want to worry about matching my bullet-proof vest and Mace container to my purse, I should steer clear of my first apartment choices.

Crap. Now what?

In Coach’s defense, she told me about other apartments that might not necessitate such drastic self-defense. I’ve decided that if I can secure a residence, all I’ll *really* need is a bed, a blow dryer, and a coffee pot. I can rough it, right?! (please stop laughing, I can HEAR that). Another friend, Epistemological Doorknob, gave me some tips but we just have to visit everything and see them for ourselves. I’m not used to a 45 minute commute and am quite spoiled by my current 7 minute commute (if I hit a train, all the red lights, and a kid named Kenny).

This is one big puzzle piece we haven’t figured out yet. Jack and I are going apartment-hunting this weekend, so hopefully, the angels will sing when we locate the right property. As a Type A, slightly-OCD control freak, I would like to get this piece decided. Watch out, that might be ME living in a toyota down by the river!