The F-word

During my workout that Saturday Patrick and I talked about Our Future.

We've tried to have this talk before; sometimes its gone pretty well, other times badly, most of the time we just get too overwhelmed: If in one year we do A, then that next year we'll do whatever jobs/schools B1 and B2 and then in a couple years C! The fact of the matter is, all we have are variables. We'll work here for a year, maybe stay at the grocery store, maybe not. We'll move to the Midwest next summer or fall and get married, maybe work at another grocery store, maybe not. Maybe he'll go to school; maybe I will. Maybe Americorps? Maybe overseas, maybe.

So 'overwhelmed' is about all we have. The only thing we managed to agree on is the Midwest, where my family is. The grad school he had been looking at that looks the most promising for an MDiv is in California. Perfect. A couple years in the Midwest, a couple years in California. Maybe by then we'll have other prospects. Maybe we'll miss Seattle, maybe my sister'll be having kids and I'll desperately need to move to Virginia. Maybe the economy will be completely belly up and we'll move to New Zealand (this is still totally possible).

So when Pat started dreaming about the University here, the Free-Methodist Christian school, I was somewhat derailed. His California school is Episcopalian, so much more in sync with our beliefs, sympathies and societal concerns. But a professor there wrote him back, "you're just in time; we just extended our deadline for the fall..." and Patrick said he felt his heart leap. His heart, you know? What was I supposed to do? I told him to look into it.

I had a small panic attack about it today at work. I've had one before while working and left mid-shift, but got reprimanded for it later, which really doesn't bother me, but it bothers Pat a lot, and so I stayed and it was good to know that for the record, it was horrible. I had to go outside and drink a bottle of juice that cost four bucks and tasted like cucumbers. Luckily, its P-day and the Mormons stopped it to stock up on-- one can only assume-- chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzels and dried mango slices, so I talked to them a while and felt tremendously better.

It's just that I never thought I'd actually totally move out of the house. Our house, the Tuttle house. My favorite, most comfortable, most known place. In this big city on this big island of the big, big world I feel very lonely most of the time. Especially at the store.

So on Saturday I had mile repeats and then two 800s at the end. After each one, I jogged under the shade of the Rec. Center and reported my times to Pat, so he could record them in my book. Each time I'd say something like, "8:17, But do you really think we can afford it?" And he'd look up and sigh, writing with one hand and holding the place in his book with the other, "Well my mom and dad always tell me that..." And eventually he'd cut himself off and whack my shin with his book-hand, "Go run!" Then, I'd jog back to the track.

It really was one of our most successful conversations.

Tonight I ran to Fremont, the closest neighborhood to the University campus, I think, and the one I'll live near if Pat and I get married next summer and live there together. And it was b-eautiful. It may have been Coldplay blaring through Christy's iPod, but I truly felt a rightness about it, and a real love for the city, which I feel on most days. I don't really want to leave Seattle, I just absolutely don't want to leave home and its so hard to understand how to do this.

Well, Runners: until the race is done.