Crazy Girl

You’re crazy, girl.

It was what my mom said when I told her I’d be going to El Salvador and Guatemala for ten days, driving around in a bus with some friends.

It’s what my dad says, shaking his head and grinning, when I start climbing a tree (or talking about it, but it usually happens).

You’re crazy, girl.

They didn’t say it when I moved across the country to start teaching in Arizona, a seriously fresh-faced 23-year-old with her first real job — but I’m sure they felt it.

You’re crazy, girl.

When I booked a flight out of Denver to visit a friend in South Korea, having never been to Colorado and just planning on having a job and apartment lined up at that point in the city.

You are definitely crazy, girl.

^That time I was saying it to myself.

No one said it when I quit teaching and worked at a soup cafe for a minute. No one thought I was crazy for moving up to Fort Collins to write full-time at an ad agency, even though I had sold my bed and was about to move back to Wisconsin if not for the job offer that came a day before leaving.

Come to think of it, my mom probably said something like “Girl, your life is crazy.”

I just drove up to Cody, WY, am starting to officially live with my boyfriend for the first time after quitting my job and not having anything directly lined up. I’m living in the smallest city I’ve ever lived in, where the nearest Target is about two hours away. I know I’m crazy, girl.

But so far it’s paid to be crazy.

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