As with so many of my decisions, I am in second guess mode. Today, I revisited the yurt scheme, the live-above-my-friends’-garage idea, the live-in-a-tent plan, the Linda’s-always-got-room scenario and the I’ll-never-own-anything-on-The-Rock-again lament.

Ye gads, the adrenaline roller coaster I’ve been on. Endocrine cha-cha, anyone? Priscilla, queen of the dopamine?

And when it’s all done at the end of the day, when I’ve had a Robaxin and a glass of red (no preaching, please), staying the course seems the best idea. I will not die of loneliness in Tacoma. No one will read an obituary that says “forty-year-old spinster found dead of nothing in tatty one-bedroom flat; cats ate her fingers; film at eleven”.

My mother is the best sounding board for this kind of thing. She reminds me that I am fine. Her favorite, innocent truism is “it won’t be as long as it has been”. Silly and apparently meaningless as that is, it comforts.

Remember why you did this, girl: a radiator and hardwood floors and Fujiya just down the way; huge sash windows and morning light and Tahoma every day; yoga and acrylic nails and Le Le and Tully’s and vroom vroom; wake-and-go convenience to I-5. The island lives in you, it lies across a passage you can cross in body or in spirit almost any time you’d like. You’re not deserting. You never could.