The greeness of the grass

Z got into a discussion last night about whether or not we should adopt a dog when we return from the States. I should probably have described this as a "discussion" as it was rather heated. We do not have permission to have a dog in our current rental which is a source of some anxiety, especially considering that the vacancy rate in this town hovers around 1%. However, the likelihood of getting caught is small and there's a chance we could bluff our way out of a situation by claiming the dog is really mum's. Or we could ask the agency that manages our rental for permission to get a dog. But if we are told no and get a dog anyway, wouldn't it be worse?

It took me a while to figure out the subtext of our "discussion". Neither of us is particularly happy here right now. I am wondering why the hell I started this PhD in the first place and whether I want to finish it. Z finds his work tedious on a good day, and we both feel a lack of deep social satisfaction. So what are we doing? What am I doing?

Earlier this year, my fieldwork monopolised my time and energy. During my trips, I was busy and surrounded by interesting people. And yet, towards the end of the field season, all I wanted was a predictable schedule that had me spending most of my time in a warm, dry, stable office. And now that I have that, I'm bored out of my skull. The grass always seems greener.

I fear that this adage can be equally applied to our situation in Australia. I've been toying with various improbable scenarios lately. For example: we (used in a global sense) run out of fuel. There's a last flight back to the States. Do we (used in a local sense) board that plane? Or: One of us is diagnosed with a serious something. Do we stay or go? It was this latter thought experiment that made me aware of some of the complications. In the States, we would have no health insurance. In fact, if one of us got sick and we were living in the States, it would make a whole lot of sense to return to Australia. As much as I miss my friends and the general population of the Bay Area, there are serious downsides to living in the U.S. of A. Health insurance, for example. Higher costs of living and smaller pay checks. A pitiful two weeks off per year. Life lived at a hectic, full-throttle pace. Traffic. Over crowding. Crap coffee.

But how much do these things matter? What actually matters? To me? To us? What are the most important things? And if I'm so damn unhappy, why aren't I doing something to fix the situation?

I suppose I am. I have a holiday coming up. Perhaps the vacation and distance will enable me to look forward to being back here for another couple of years. Or maybe, being back in SF will seem like a too short taste of something delicious.

So, do we get a dog? No really, this is all related. So much of my life at the moment feels like something to tolerate or survive or get through in order to get to the good stuff. That's no way to live: waiting for something better. Putting off getting a dog until we own a house or have stable jobs or know which continent we want to live on seems like one more way to delay pleasure. Not only that, but dogs have this innate ability to find joy in the most mundane things (half a tennis ball, for example). Having a dog would add an immediacy and purpose to our day-to-day existence here in Melbourne. Is that too much to ask of a furry bundle? Perhaps. Would the dog make any difference? Perhaps.

What will make a difference is a vacation. 12 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes and counting...