There are some things I want in my life. I want the weather to be warm. Until I want it to be cold, of course, for the holidays. I want to give more than I take, celebrate more than I complain and sweat my ass of in yoga every single day. I’d like cats and children and some mismatched-yet-somehow-perfectly-paired dishes. I want friends who drop by just because, family who live in the same time zone and mornings when my cell phone isn’t the first thing I reach for.

I’d like to travel far and often, to start a magazine that doesn’t suck, to teach yoga, to open a restaurant. I want a home that’s small but comfortable with lots of windows (and screens) and a garbage disposal and a dishwasher and a washing machine and a garden and a magical as-of-yet-nonexistent contraption that cleans all cat hair without me noticing or doing anything at all.

Today I’m picking up (and signing, presumably) the lease for my new place. It has none of the things on my list. None. OK, cats. Check and check. It’s small and dishwasherless and a little rougher around the edges than the last place. But it’s also cute (oh so cute) and the neighborhood is walkable (and full of restaurants… and bars) and I’ll have an office (an office) and room for a little raised garden. I’ll decorate it (I promise, self, I promise.) and I’ll clean it and I won’t let Ralphie scratch anything of importance.

I’ll drive two miles to yoga instead of 27. I’ll make my humble little kitchen a Food Network set. On Saturdays, I’ll bike to the market precariously balancing the coffee and muffin I grabbed at the bakery down the street. And on my way home I’ll eat lunch at this place.

That’s where I am now. Eating a build-your-own with romaine, chickpeas, carrots, artichoke hearts, olives, char-grilled tofu and roasted lemon vinaigrette and overthinking the hell out of the paper I’m about to sign.

It’s just a lease. It’s just a move. It’s just the next step.