Don’t Call Me Lucky

I think it’s pretty normal to look at the life Sean and I have and feel some type of way. Some think we are crazy. Some want to know all the details. And some, don’t care at all, they just see us as we are. I don’t have a problem with any of the above.

However.

One comment I occasionally get about our life is “you’re so lucky.” This one bothers me and let me explain why.

I’m currently jet-lagged beyond belief after flying back to Tbilisi on Tuesday (I almost wrote Wednesday because THAT’S HOW TIRED I AM). I came home to a house with five over-excited animals and a refrigerator devoid of food. I had two suitcases, a backpack, and my purse to unpack. I knew I had to keep moving, or I would mess myself up even more in terms of sleep. I hadn’t seen Sean in a week and wanted to spend some time with him. I passed out at 9:00 pm and had an extremely restless night’s sleep.

Not to mention, I probably managed to pick up some sort of stomach ailment on the way home – either that or my body just was rejecting life for a bit – because I spent the first two days back rushing to the bathroom. So that’s fun.

I finally went grocery shopping today. It took me about 30 minutes to check out because they send all the Diplomats to one line, and the cashier was dealing with who knows what in front of me. We didn’t speak any similar languages, so I have no idea what was happening. I also didn’t find half the items on my list so I may end up going to at least one additional grocery store this week. All that trouble to make a few meals that make us feel a little closer to home.

In five weeks, I will turn around and do this whole trip again – for the third time this summer – to be included in major life events. My annual meeting in Denver this past June. These two August weddings, and one more in October. I live a 24-hour journey from my home state. 24 hours away from my family. 24 hours away from friends. 24 hours away from any sort of normalcy.

I’m not lucky. This life is my choice.

Sean and I choose this life, the same way we choose each other. We’ve chosen to move halfway around the world so he can follow his dreams. Some people choose to get married and buy a house. Or choose to have kids and be a stay-at-home parent. It doesn’t make any decision bad or better, it just makes it a reality.

I think the main reason I have a hard time with people telling me I’m lucky is that it envokes jealousy or envy. Jealousy is not really an emotion I’m familiar with. I can’t recall the last time I felt jealous of anything in a serious fashion. Sure, I’m envious of Sean when he eats the last chocolate chip cookie, but that’s relatively benign. Right?

By calling me lucky, that means you’re jealous, and I’m uncomfortable with the idea that someone is jealous of my life. Yes, I’m aware that I blog about our exciting and exotic trips from time to time, and, yes, I can see how you might think that’s always our reality. I don’t think it would be interesting or fun for anyone if I got on here every week and went “the grocery store was annoying, we haven’t gotten our mail yet, Ren won’t stop barking at the fireworks that go off EVERY night, and I miss my family and friends, and I’m sad about that!”

I’ve chosen this. Sean’s chosen this. It’s unusual, for sure. But we are not lucky.