I’m finishing up a year long transitional marathon, and I think I can see the finish line. There’s a flag of high speed internet waving at me. The privacy of my own master bathroom is calling my name, urging me to finish strong. Granite countertops gleam like a finisher’s medal, with stainless steel appliances rounding out the medal stand. I’m trying to keep a steady pace, one foot in front of the other, but like in all races, when the finish line comes into view, my heart rate quickens, and my pace gets a little hurried. I’m packing boxes, making phone calls, and in general just getting very, very antsy. It’s rather hard to focus on anything other than that finish goal. It looks like, by June, it could all be history that I remember from the comfy cushions of my much-beloved tan couch of which I could write a book about.