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I’m going to Paris in July.

Alone.

I actually wasn’t planning on taking a vacation of any sort this summer. My plan was to work and save up to buy a house later this year once my lease is up. Back in the end of February, I was worrying about it a lot, the idea of buying a house. I’m in my late twenties, have a steady job, and, really, it seemed like the smart thing to do. I mean, that’s what successful happy people do, right?

On top of my shady reasoning for getting a house, there were a host of other issues. Nothing in my area or in my price range was what I wanted. The timing of actually moving was going to be shit. I would have to face taking care of any problems that might crop up with a house completely on my own. In fact, all the worrying made me start to wonder why I was bothering so much with something that I clearly didn’t want.

Of course, once I realize I didn’t actually want to buy a house, it got me wondering, “What the hell do I want?”

So I did what I usually do, and I made a list. I wrote down everything I wanted to do if money and time were not an issue. One of the things on the list was to travel. I knew exactly the first place too. Paris. Within a week of my epiphany, I took the money I had been saving for the prospective house and I booked a flight to Paris and a hotel.

It might just be the bravest thing I’ve done in years.

It’s also something I knew, without a doubt, that I absolutely wanted to do. Am I scared to go alone? Absolutely. Could it turn into a disaster? Quite possibly. Will it worth it? Hell, yes!

I haven’t been this excited in years. And it got me thinking. What else do I want to do that I’m not doing? How do I start doing it?

 

I don’t know. Not yet. But I plan to find out.

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