2001-07-25 - 3:01 p.m.

It was harder to come home than I thought it would be. I was really�.content out in California. Sleeping ten hours a night, bringing back bagels for breakfast, walking around the city all day long, reading or playing cards at night, being quietly domestic�I never once got bored, or frustrated, or frantic. Sometimes I got tired, or weary, or nervous about my navigation skills. But I think I could have done it for a lot longer than 12 days. Maybe part of me never wanted to come back.

It�s hot here. I mean, really hot, the kind of heat that sends you inside, and keeps you there for hours and hours. You peer out the windows from your air conditioned safety, because you can see the heat, hovering over the ground, ready to assault you should you try to go outside.

There wasn�t heat like this in California.

There wasn�t work either. From my first morning back, I could tell that nothing had changed. There was some work to do, but not a lot, and I did it, but grudgingly. I�m so unmotivated here, which is a shame, as I think I really could be learning a lot. Um, about banking. Did I mention the banking bit? See, I�m an editor. Usually, I like to stop there, because being an editor sounds fun and exciting and glamorous. But, um, I�m an editor at a financial publishing company. Oh wait, you want to know more? We publish books. For bankers. Really boring dry books for bankers. Our big seller? Internet Banking Strategies for Community Banks. Um, really. No, I don�t write them. I edit them. No, I really don�t know that much about the subject matter. Yes, it�s hard to edit books about banks when you don�t know anything about banks. So, yes, I�m really more of a glorified proofreader. A glorified proofreader whose boss doesn�t really check over her work, who slacks off all day, every day, and who gets paid way more money than she should. So you see my dilemma. The credit card�s paid off, and I�m working on the student loans. I�m experiencing a financial freedom heretofore unheard of: I can go out to eat without feeling guilty about it. I can pay full price for a movie, and not think twice. I can go to California for almost two weeks, gleefully putting everything on my credit card, knowing I can pay the balance in full when the bill comes in. I like living like this. I was tired of struggling, all of the time.

But it�s getting harder. I don�t like being this unmotivated. I don�t like myself this way, slacking off every day, not even caring if anyone notices anymore. I wonder how long I can do this. I tell myself a year. I think I should stay here a year.

So, I�m back in Austin. And how do I know I�m really back? Yesterday, at Wheatsville, I ran into two people I wanted to see, and successfully avoided running into one person I did not want to see (thanks to a full two minutes spent in front of the prepackaged tofu section, carefully surveying every single kind, until the aforementioned party left the produce section behind me). Later, at home, as I was getting ready to leave the house to go to Barton Springs, there was a knock on the door.

�Is Suzanne here?� he asked.

�Yes, I�ll go get her.�

�Hi, Sara.�

�Ummm, we�ve met, haven�t we�.� It was more of a statement, rather than a question. I knew we�d met. Didn�t I?

He didn�t say anything else, but walked right in, and off to Suzanne�s room. I went and hid in my room, and racked my brain. Who was this guy? Wait. Of course. Dave. Or David. Something like that. Professor of German at UT. We had brunch at Mother�s, and then later played racquetball. I don�t remember what happened after that; either I didn�t email him back, or he didn�t email me back. I have a tendency to block out the things I don�t want to remember, so it was probably the former. I didn�t have very much fun on those dates; I was nervous and anxious, and felt awfully young (and he was better at racquetball than me). I�d only been in Austin a few months, and was working as an administrative assistant for an educational publishing company. I didn�t know how long I was going to stay in Austin, or how I�d come to be there in the first place (not too different from now, actually), while he had a career that he seemed passionate about. It was just easier not to call him, then to tell him that his very presence made me feel inadequate. We�d met in an odd way, as well. My roommate Kasee had placed a personal ad in the Chronicle, and he had left a message. Kasee, for reasons I will never fathom, had an aversion to any guy who called that seemed the least little bit intellectual. When he told her he had his Ph.D., she went on and on about how much he had in common with her roommate (that would be me). So she gave him my email address, we exchanged a few emails, went on a few dates, I stopped returning his emails (I assume, as I honestly don�t remember), and I thought I�d never see him again.

But this is Austin. Sometimes the people you really don�t want to see again show up on your front doorstep.

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