Uprooting Your Life, Living With an Entrepreneur, and Other Hazardous Feats
To say I’m a daredevil would be somewhat of a big fat lie. Sure, I’ve jumped out of airplanes, and traveled from Bologna to Milan ticket-less and hiding in the putrid WC; but I’m also the same person who called a 20 mile radius home for 25 years of her life. I’ve had the same friends since before I knew how to thread my eyebrows, and have eaten the same fiber rich breakfast cereal since my mom picked up the jumbo box at Costco when I was 15. Creature of habit, this one is.
So when, after these 25 years of friendships and Kellogg’s, we hugged them goodbye, packed up our beloved Thomas the Train table, my husband’s 13 boxes of assorted HDMI cables, and moved across the globe to India – we cannon-balled into the deep end.
The deep end where I was suddenly friendless, a bit (quite a bit) lost, and finding myself married to an entrepreneur. My better-half had chosen to take the path less beaten, forsake his comfortable job in that gorgeous glass building in DC, and plow purposefully towards the chaos of entrepreneurship. And we had all brazenly taken the plunge with him – because ya know, love.
But damn, the food was good (more, much more, on that later).
To say that life with an entrepreneur is a roller-coaster is trite, cliché and also absolutely true. I wish there was a less lazy and more beautiful way to explain it — something powerfully poetic about my soul or the clash of our auras – but it honestly is just a roller-coaster. It is thrilling, it is frightening, you squeal with joy at each clawed out victory, and hold your breath barreling through the challenging bits. The climb up at the beginning is slow, as it steadily builds its pace – this is where you murmur prayers and desperately beg the universe to deliver. And before you know it, your arms are up, your mouth is agape, and you’re yelling – sometimes at your husband whose eyes glaze over in an eerie PCP addict manner when you discuss anything but his venture, and sometimes with your husband when he finally, victoriously lands that crucial contract.
Although time whizzes by in bright flashes, you don’t actually get a picture at the end of the ride. But it doesn’t take a picture to realize your hair had been blown helter-skelter, you look every bit an electrocuted kitten, so dazed, a bit shell-shocked, and ready to do it all over again the next day. Because ya know, faith.