On a Rainy Monday

This morning I don't feel very well, not to mention I am infected with a strong case of "moving fever". Moving fever, largely defined as: "a condition that effects person (namely me) on any given day and is of or related to moving, reflecting the need for said person to live in a more seasonal climate, quaint town, prevalent greenery, and appeal to wander. Such condition is most prevalent in the Fall, the Christmas season, the height of Spring, and at any mention of the word "lake" in the summer months."

Now, you must know, I love our little house. I like that it's on a hill, I like that it overlooks a small canyon and city lights, I find comfort in our two trees, and though our fireplace is not to scale in relation to the size of the house (and a huge fire hazard), I like having a fireplace, too -- perhaps even love. If I had to live in any house in Southern California right now, it might just be this one. So why then is my wondering heart looking at realestate in Wheaton, IL. and daydreaming of a Chicago apartment with New England architecture and brass door knobs? Most likely after awhile those brass door knobs would not look as shinny -- if even shinny at all -- and the New England architecture would be as mundaine as a track home. But there's apart of me that doesn't believe that, that believes that moving would be infinitely luxureous and infinitely wise. My husband, on the other hand, always maintains firmer grips with reality. It takes him eons to decide something -- unlike my impulsive self (well, I'm not impulsive in small things or relationship things, just pet/traveling/moving/job-related decisions, I might add). Yet, when Eric decides these things it's as good as stone, he never requestions it, he owns it, has complete faith in it, and then feels the excitement. That usually happens right around the time I think "what have we done!" Then, of course, once the "storm" settles we both have confidence in it, and that, I know is how the decision and action of moving would be. So, here I am, lingering in my perpetual idealistic stage, that may very well never bear fruit, or be right. Although, at this particular moment, I'm convinced that nearly any sacrifice would be worth Fall leaves.