Last week Casey and I were hanging out around my kitchen table, like we’ve done probably 100 times in the last 5 years, when without thinking, I referred to my move to Belgium as a “trip”. I think I said something like “when we get back from our trip” blah blah blah…
And then later that same evening, while on a disaster of a date night (What? You never go out with just your husband on a highly anticipated evening without your children only to end up arguing? weird.) I again reference the 4,200 mile move across the Atlantic as a “trip”.
Both times I said it subconsciously without thinking, and both times got called out because 3 years is apparently a darn long “trip”.
The thing is, I honestly do feel it’s just a trip. Because when people move, they don’t come back. And when people move, they don’t store their belongings in the city they’re moving out of. And when people move, they don’t ask friends to take care of their animals until they come back.
To me, moving means there is no coming back. Trips you come back from, and I have a return date.
The Midwest is my home, and everything I love is located in Indianapolis and west Michigan. I’ll happily take a trip away from home, but get real, I would never move.
And when I come home, I’ll feed you some Belgian chocolate, show you my photos, and teach you how to swear in French. Because that’s what friends do when they get back from trips.
Seriously, it’s just a longish trip.