When I was in seventh grade, I had one of those open-ended school assignments on a topic of our choosing and I made (and bound and laminated) a magazine called Crazy About Dogz. The magazine was some of my finest work. It had features on specific dog breeds. It had quizzes for what kind of dog you should adopt. It had information about the local shelter and reviews of popular dog food. I was very, very into this magazine.
I took a lot of inspiration from a magazine called Dog Fancy—the magazine that was all the rage for a puppy-obsessed 10-year-old in the early 2000s. I don’t recall how Dog Fancy came on my radar, but I do remember an ad in the magazine offering a lifetime subscription for a price that was absolutely better than buying one off magazines or maybe even a year subscription.
I did the math over and over. And I explained to my mom that because I love dogs so much I could see myself reading this when I was her age and I would read it to my kids and even my grandkids and we would all read Dog Fancy cover to cover to cover month after month after month.
We did not do a lifetime subscription to Dog Fancy.
Dog Fancy was discontinued in 2015.
I still obsessively love dogs. But I simply did not need a monthly subscription to Dog Fancy.
A few years later, my world shifted to running shoes and interval training. I loved cross country and track and I loved distance running. When I was 15, I genuinely believed that I would run every single day for the rest of my life. I was a three sport athlete and I took it (like everything in my life it seems) very seriously.
I have a clear memory of running down the hill leaving my parent’s neighborhood and thinking, “wow, I will be doing this every single day forever.” It wasn’t an overwhelming or scary thought, rather the reality of my limited understanding of moderation.
Now, at 30, with two marathons under my belt and a deep love for lacing up my sneakers, I remember that feeling and laugh. I mean, I love to run. But every… single… day?
It’s funny to—with a decade(s) of space—think back on the things we were so sure about.
I thought I might live ______.
I thought I might marry _____.
I thought I might always _____.
And some of those timelines may have turned out beautifully. Maybe there is a world where I pursue a career working with dogs in some capacity. Maybe there is a world where I pursue extreme endurance related challenges like running across the United States.
But maybe there’s just this world.
So commonly said we call it cliche is the idea of “another life.” In another life, I run a used bookstore in a small coastal town where everyone knows everyone. I sell vegan baked goods and rent the space out for open mic nights and community events. In another life, I figure out how to do what Rick Steves did and get paid to travel around the world sharing guides about the best holiday markets in Europe.
It’s a fun game. It’s a nice thought. But the reality is there is no “other life.” There’s just this one. There’s just this one where I mail pre-read books to my friends and make vegan cookies for my colleagues. There’s this one where I take a job that occasionally pays for my travel to far off locations and I have friends who will spend a week driving around the Utah National Parks with me to hike and explore on our own terms.
In another life, maybe I do things differently. Maybe I still read Dog Fancy and maybe I’m on my 1,072nd marathon and the Guinness Book of World Records comes calling.
But in this life, I read my New Yorker on the ferry to work. I go for quiet runs in my neighborhood and look up races that fit into my schedule and leave space for other vibrant, beautiful adventures.
I live here.
I’m in love with.
I always.
Perhaps our great luck is the things that didn’t happen.
Perhaps our great luck is the things that did.
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