Most “real” New Yorkers claim that you don’t become one of them until you’ve lived in the city for at least ten years. Some say it takes a lifetime. According to the New York State Unified Court System, I’d managed to become a New Yorker in less than seven years, and it was time to show my appreciation by paying a visit to the courthouse.

For months, I’d been boomeranging jury notice slips back downtown, convinced that if I deferred enough times, the powers that be would give up on me altogether. But the government, as it turned out, was no sleazy day trader at happy hour who—eventually—took the hint. No matter how often I rejected the offer for a date, Uncle Sam wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Our little courting ritual came to an end one Tuesday night in March. I arrived home to the cramped apartment Jen and I shared with our friend Beth and swept up the stack of mail threatening to slip-slide off our front table. There, wedged between a Vietnamese delivery menu and our latest cable bill, was a red-and-black envelope marked URGENT—FINAL NOTICE.

Ripping open the letter, I flung myself onto the futon and tried to figure out how I could possibly get out of going one more time. That’s when I heard the key twisting in the lock. Jen didn’t even get the chance to dump the three bags she was carrying on the ground before I pounced.

“There’s just no way!” I railed, pacing the length of our ten-foot living room while Jen calmly hung up her pink wool coat with the patent leather trim. “I can’t miss work right now. I’m already so overloaded that I’m starting to make really stupid mistakes. Misspelling words when I have to make changes on-screen. Our research chief pulled me aside today to remind me how to annotate copy.”

“Ooh, that sucks. But I’m sure they know you’re just busy. What’d you misspell?” she asked, shaking the snow out of her honey-colored hair.

“Safety. Can you believe that? I spelled it saf-tey, and the proofreader almost didn’t catch it until it went to press. Claire was definitely not impressed with that one.”

My new boss, Claire, a veteran women’s magazine editor, had taken over the nutrition section after my previous supervisor, Kristen, had moved over to head the new sexual health department. Whereas Kristen had worked with me one-on-one to help me grow as a newbie writer and assigned me feature stories rather than busy work, Claire seemed to believe that assistants should pay their dues in messages taken and paperwork filed. To say that she and I hadn’t exactly clicked professionally would be a major understatement. I’d always felt that if she could have replaced me instead of inheriting me, she wouldn’t have hesitated a second.

“Well, I wouldn’t freak out about jury duty too much. Every New Yorker has to do it at some point,” said Jen, prying a microwave burrito from the back of the freezer. “You probably won’t even get picked.”

“Yeah, but what if I do? What if I get picked and they think I didn’t try hard enough to get out of it and they decide to give the associate editor job to someone else?”

She looked at me in the amused way she does when I spiral from illogical into completely irrational. Which is often. “I promise—in the remote chance that you actually get chosen, there’s no way they’d give the job to someone else. You’ve worked your ass off. And besides, it’s not like they can forbid you to serve on a jury. So don’t stress.”

I sighed. Jen was probably right. In any case, I didn’t appear to have much of a choice. As the notice implied, either I would serve my civic duty—or I could wind up serving time.

Sitting in the courtroom a few weeks later, I tried to look as pathetic as possible. I’d made it a point to toss on sweats, leave my hair unwashed, and avoid makeup completely. Maybe the judge would think, “This girl can’t even be bothered to use mascara—how can she possibly be qualified to sit on a jury?”

Glancing at the bored New Yorkers around me, I wondered who among us would get chosen to serve. I’d narrowly escaped the day before and hoped to shimmy through the cracks a second time. Every hour I sat here, trying to avoid attracting attention, was one more that I wasn’t answering e-mails, which no doubt had already mutated and multiplied in my inbox like some resistant strain of flu virus. By now the pile of glossy proofs I’d yet to read had probably toppled and slid under my desk.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to Argentina.

As that traitorous thought whined around my head, I tried to squash it senseless. What good was taking the trip of a lifetime if you were just going to regret it once you got home? Back in Iguazú, when we’d contemplated turning our dream vacation into a yearlong adventure, I’d been high on the idea of unplugging from my cell phone, my computer, and in fact, my entire life. But almost the second I’d dived back into my desk chair, reality had sledgehammered down. Somehow, during the ten days that I’d been away, I’d managed to fall at least a month behind on my assignments. Go away for a year? Yeah, right. By the third weekend spent shivering inside an empty office tower trying to get caught up, I understood why more experienced editors joked that it wasn’t worth the hassle to take a vacation at all.

As winter faded and spring edged in, the pace at work never slacked. If anything, it grew even more intense. Ad sales were up, and we had more pages to write and assign. The hole I’d dug while in Argentina grew into a ditch, then a bottomless trench.

The same stress that had once motivated me to spring out of bed in the morning now chased me under the covers at night. I lay awake, heart racing and guts churning as I scribbled to-do lists in the back of my head. Stress became my chronic companion, an ugly, overcaffeinated little goblin that used my chest as a trampoline and my head as a boxing ring and laid off only when I was exhausted enough to pass out.

Despite advice from friends to set boundaries (“Tell your boss you can’t take on any more work. Just walk out the door every day at 6 p.m., no matter what”), admitting I’d bitten off more than I could chew would be a huge mistake. I worked with five other ambitious assistants just as eager to prove themselves as I was. We all knew that to reach the coveted level of associate editor (and if you didn’t want that, you might as well just get out now) we’d have to go way above and beyond our job descriptions, taking on any extra responsibilities we could convince the department heads to dish out.

The competition among the six of us was friendly but fierce. When the pressure got to be too intense we’d commiserate, but we still fought for assignments the way hyenas might scrap over felled antelope. Ironically, perhaps through the shared experience, the late nights, and the intensity of the situation, we forged a tight friendship, a bond built over blood, sweat, and take-out soy sauce.

Of those young women, Holly was always my closest confidante. Even though she had even more to do than the rest of us—she assisted three executives in addition to editing her own pages for the Happiness section—I’d never seen Holly break down or sob in the women’s bathroom the way almost every other junior staffer had. She fielded the demands of the job with good humor and a can-do attitude (at least, when our bosses were around) but was never too busy to go on a caffeine run or join me in a gripe session. She even managed to break me out of the office a few times for yoga and Pilates classes, saying we’d end up being more productive mentally if we took care of ourselves physically.

When the to-do list got really long, both Holly and I would work late, taking breaks to vent over California rolls and fantasize about doing something on Friday nights other than partying at our desks. Running the editorial hamster wheel could be almost fun with Hol around—except that as soon as we got back from Argentina, she scored a job at a kinder, gentler women’s magazine. I was thrilled for her (and, yes, slightly jealous) but mostly just perplexed when she started inviting me to hit the gym or designer sample sales at lunch. Had she already forgotten where she’d worked?

As the weeks ticked by, the anxiety I hid while at the office started to bubble over. I snapped at the deli guy if he accidentally put mayo on my sandwich or if someone cut me off going through a subway turnstile. I’d always been a tad feisty, but some days I felt as if I were one annoyance away from climbing the art installation in Union Square and opening fire on the skateboarders below.

Then, just before spring finally broke, two things happened: The magazine’s sole associate editor spot, the position directly above mine, became vacant. And I was forced to leave the office to serve jury duty.

Despite my every intention to perjure myself, when the judge finally locked his eyes on mine and started asking questions, I heard the terrible, awful truth spilling out. I’d never been placed under arrest. I’d never been the victim of a hate crime. I’d never been stalked (unless you could count years of ex-boyfriend drama). And yes, I lived in Manhattan and had no immediate plans to leave the area.

It came as almost no surprise when, at a quarter to five, the court officer read my name off the list of selected jurors.

The judge assured the dozen of us that our case wouldn’t last long, a week or so at most. Once we’d passed judgment on a relative stranger, we’d be free to go back to our regularly scheduled lives. Sounded easy enough.

As he spoke, it struck me that my new courthouse workday would be an unthinkably brief eight hours long—and for once I could actually leave the building for lunch. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone anywhere but the company cafeteria. Two years spent inhaling its greasy buffalo chicken wraps and oil-soaked pasta salads had caused me to gain fifteen pounds and a pretty substantial muffin top. Considering I was simultaneously instructing millions of women how to “Lose a dress size in 10 days!” and “Slim down in your sleep!” the irony hadn’t escaped me. Nor, I figured, had my extra flab escaped the hawkeyed editors with whom I shared my office tower. As I headed out to grab a bite that first day, I wondered if jury duty might actually be a blessing in disguise.

Despite the incredible amount of carrying on I’d done beforehand, I was surprised to find that I actually loved serving on a jury. I slid from bed each morning on the third snooze rather than the tenth, dressed quickly (who’d care if I wore cargo pants and a hoodie?), and jammed out to my new iPod mini as I zipped downtown on the express subway line.

The trial, as it turned out, was nothing like those in Ally McBeal or Boston Legal, but I didn’t care. Boredom was so unfamiliar a feeling that I actually welcomed it. During my hours in the jury box, my attention warbled in and out like an AM radio signal, my thoughts inevitably drifting back uptown.

As testimony played faintly in the background, I recalled how intense it felt, after years spent shifting between internships and jobs that weren’t quite right, to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. The moment I finally hit upon that realization, I’d been almost manic about my quest to get into magazines. I’d interviewed for what felt like hundreds of positions before finally convincing my boss that, at twenty-five, I wasn’t already too old and too experienced to take on the grunt work required of an editorial assistant (and make $24,000 a year while doing it).

It was just as my career began to get on track that my relationship with Baker—the first and only guy I’d ever fallen truly, deeply in love with—hit the skids. We’d had a passionate, tumultuous start, and over the course of three years, he and I had shredded ourselves apart so many times it was a wonder we had ever managed to stitch ourselves back together again. When we finally ended things after a roller coaster of a vacation in Mexico and a subsequent screaming match in the middle of Times Square, I think both he and I knew that this breakup had to be the last. He disappeared into the throng of pedestrians on 42nd Street that day, and I didn’t talk to him again for months.

Still, I knew exactly where he was headed. Baker had been planning a multicountry backpacking trip in the years before we’d met and had grounded himself in Manhattan only long enough to give our blossoming relationship a fighting chance. Eventually, though, he’d grown restless, eager to move on. “Let’s get out of New York already,” he’d urged. “Just hand in your notice, pack a bag, and let’s go.”

It was such a far-fetched plan—who abandons everything in her midtwenties to become a vagabond?—but a part of me ached to leave and see the world with him, to determine if the problems plaguing our relationship had everything to do with the extreme pressure of life in New York rather than some irreconcilable failure between the two of us.

I loved the possibility of adventure. I was still in love with him. But in the end, he couldn’t commit to a future in the city and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. So I let him go. After all that time, I didn’t need a plane ticket or a stamp-riddled passport to know that he and I weren’t meant to make certain journeys together.

Once Baker left, I wondered: How could I have ever considered leaving New York when I’d just gotten started?

The embers of my relationship still smoldering, I threw myself headlong into the new position I’d lobbied so hard to get. I couldn’t work enough hours or take on enough tasks—no matter how mundane or unrelated to my career they might have been—to capture my attention and fill the void in my life. My higher-ups seemed delighted that their new nutrition assistant had little else to do besides spend her nights and weekends helping out at work.

Over time, the pain subsided, but my dedication to the magazine didn’t. It occurred to me along the way that, unlike a relationship with a man, the more time and energy I poured into my job, the greater the satisfaction and reward I got out of it. It took only a year for me to get my first promotion (a subtle but important title change from editorial assistant to assistant editor), and when my boss broke the good news, she suggested it wouldn’t be long before I got the next bump up—as long as I kept exceeding everyone’s expectations.

The challenge had been proffered. So dedicated did I become to my job that I was willing to downgrade every other priority in order to put in more time at the office, to achieve that next level. Did I ever feel conflicted as I turned down trips to the beach with my girlfriends, guilty at blowing off night after night of friends’ happy hours, or anxious over the fact that I hadn’t left myself much time to go on dates with guys, let alone attempt a new relationship? Hardly a day went by that I didn’t. But I’d gotten a later start than most. If I ever wanted to be viewed as something other than a mail-retrieving, phone-answering, yes-girl junior editor, I couldn’t afford to slack off now. And if I got the promotion to associate and moved one more spot up the masthead, it really wouldn’t matter what I’d given up to get there. I was still years away from my thirtieth birthday. There’d be plenty of time for family, friends, and new boyfriends then—right?

When I checked my messages on the last day of the trial, I had a voice mail from my executive editor, Helene, telling me that she wanted to discuss the associate spot as soon as I returned. Something in her voice threw me. I couldn’t tell if she was being her typically reserved self or if something was wrong—but I couldn’t wait until Monday to find out.

I forced myself to get through the closing arguments and the half-hour jury deliberation (unanimously not guilty! Now let’s go!) without making it too obvious how much I wanted to run. Scrambling down the front steps of the courthouse, I dived down to the subway platform and slipped through the doors of the N train just before they slammed shut.

My body was shot through with adrenaline by the time I arrived at work. A few sidelong glances in the elevator reminded me that I hadn’t dressed in uniform—I was wearing a pair of faded terry cloth pants and a long-sleeved tee—but I was too preoccupied to care that people were staring.

Rocketing past reception, I saw that my entire floor looked like a ghost town. Computer screens were on, proofs slung across desks—but no editors. I walked around until I spotted our office manager on the phone in her cubicle.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“Conference room,” she mouthed, pointing down the hall.

The room was completely packed with both editorial staff and salespeople. I slipped in the back and shimmied in the direction of the other assistants. Our editor in chief, Beth, had just finished presenting the upcoming issue, something she did so the staff could get a sense of how the content in the whole magazine worked together. We’d had several of these presentations before, but never with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, which were reserved for baby and wedding showers and, occasionally, promotions.

Then it hit me. Were they going to announce the promotion? Now? I was suddenly mortified that I’d worn something so unkempt into a room full of fashion editors.

“Such an impressive issue, everyone. Thanks again for your hard work. I know you all have pages to attend to, places to be,” said Beth. “But before you bolt out of here, I hope you’ll join me in celebrating another piece of good news. Today I’m proud to announce the promotion of one of our hardworking assistants.”

I glanced at Claire, who immediately looked away—and then I knew. There was no doubt in my mind that when Beth reached the end of her speech, it would not be my name that she announced. Oh, my God, I have to get out of here.

But there was simply no way I could escape without being noticed. There was no time. As everyone raised their glasses, Beth said how proud she was of Elizabeth Morton; no one would do a better job as the team’s new associate editor. While everyone else sipped, I silently choked. I forced my throat not to close up and cut off my oxygen supply; I willed my eyes not to fill up with tears and commanded my body not to shake.

Mercifully, the meeting broke up, and at the earliest possible second, I made a beeline for the door. As I scurried away, miserable little hamster that I was, I felt a hand wrap around my upper arm and maneuver me down the hall to an office. It was my old boss, Kristen.

For once in my highly verbal life, I couldn’t speak. I knew if I opened my mouth, torrents of tears and dammed-up emotions would come flooding out.

“I’m sorry, that was a terrible way to find out,” she said. “Look, I know that Helene wanted to talk to you before you came in on Monday and heard it from someone else.”

“But I don’t get it, I just thought…” I managed to squeak. “Why?”

“Well, I think that Helene and Claire just have a few…concerns. I know they both wanted to talk to you sometime next week. We didn’t think you’d be here today.”

“Please, just tell me what’s going on. I’d really just rather hear it from you so I can at least be prepared.”

She sighed. “Well, it’s not the end of the world. But it was a bit unprofessional that you never came in to work this past week. Everyone really feels that you should have taken care of your responsibilities and assignments, jury duty or not.”

“You mean no one covered my section?” I was floored. “I was supposed to come in at night? After jury duty?”

She didn’t say anything, but her silence confirmed it.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t Claire just tell me that I needed to be here?” As the words left my mouth, I realized I already knew the answer. My bosses couldn’t legally require me to come in after jury service—but a dedicated editor would have done it on her own.

“I think you should just meet with them,” she said kindly. It was sinking in that things might be a lot worse for me than simply not being promoted.

An agonizing weekend and two weekdays passed, but the following Wednesday, I finally shut the sliding door to Helene’s office and sunk into the chair next to Claire’s. Helene, well known among our staff for being direct but fair, didn’t waste precious seconds. “So, we want you to understand that you’re not being let go—”

Let go?!

“—but in light of your recent performance, we’re beginning to question whether you’re really committed to your position at the magazine.”

My head snapped left to get a read on Claire, who kept her eyes firmly forward.

“Claire has told me that since she’s been your manager, you’ve been focusing on larger projects but neglecting your assistant duties. She says the newspapers don’t get clipped daily, the mail hasn’t been opened and distributed on time every morning. Is that correct?”

I knew it would be useless to explain that with the huge number of tasks on my plate—editing a monthly recipe section, writing features and front-of-book pages, running the internship program—sometimes phones didn’t get answered on the first ring and I had to save clipping newspapers and opening boxes for the weekends.

I nodded, dejected.

“Well, okay then. What I have here is a list of the various areas where we”—she glanced over at Claire—“feel that your performance has been slipping. And you’ll have one month to make improvements in these areas. If you can’t, then we’ll have to discuss whether or not this magazine is really the right place for you anymore.”

Instantly I knew what was happening. I was being put on probation, the legal formality required before a company can show its undesirables the door. Here, when people were given a month to shape up, it was their cue to look for another job.

As Helene read slowly through the list, making comments after each point, I felt my body temperature start to rise along with her words. Fear ebbed away and was replaced with less polite emotions. She wrapped up her presentation and asked me if I had any questions or anything I’d like to say. You know, before the clock started ticking.

What could I say? That I really was a hard worker? That my mean new boss just didn’t like me? That I couldn’t possibly be on probation or lose this job, because the magazine was my whole life now? Please, please, pretty please don’t fire me? The reins on my own future had been yanked from my grasp. There they were, dangling in front of me but just beyond reach. There was only one way I could think of to take them back—and so I did.

When I opened my mouth, instead of the Chernobyl-like explosion I feared, someone else’s eerily collected words issued out: “Helene, I appreciate you letting me know about the areas where I could use improvement. Based on your feedback over the past two years, I really thought I’d been doing a good job, even exceeding your expectations. This is the first time that I’m hearing that I’m not.”

I turned to my new boss, who still wouldn’t look at me.

“Claire—I’m not sure why you didn’t talk to me earlier. If I’d known that you wanted something done differently, I would have tried to fix it. But now I’m getting the feeling that it’s already too late to make the changes that you want.”

I dared myself to keep talking, knowing that if I stopped, I would never again be foolish enough to say what I did next.

“Helene, I’ve truly enjoyed working with this staff, and I’ve learned so much at this magazine. I don’t think I need a whole month to get my act together. Please consider this conversation my two weeks’ notice.”

Ten minutes later, I was sitting at the Bryant Park sandwich kiosk, waiting for my friend and former coworker Stephanie, whom I had emergency-called on my flight from the building. By the time she got there, my face had already melted like sidewalk chalk after a downpour, streaks of charcoal, bronzer, and pastels rolling toward the gutters.

“La-aaady. What the heck happened to you?” Her jaw was agape as she approached. “You look like you got hit by a bus or something.”

Indeed, I did feel as if I’d been pushed in front of an oncoming M15, but I wasn’t surprised that she’d called my attention to it. Steph had never been the type to sugarcoat things, one of the main reasons I liked hanging out with her. Even now, as I hiccupped out the story of a pretty dismal few days, she gave me her unglazed opinion on the whole situation.

“So it sucks that you were put on probation instead of getting promoted. But seriously—what are you so upset about?” she asked.

“Well, for starters, I just lost my job.”

“Hell, yeah, you did. But that’s because you wanted to lose it.”

I tried to correct her, but she cut me off.

“Come on,” she said, in a familiar tone that indicated I was to cut the bullshit pronto. “You were the one who gave your notice. Tell me that you really wanted to stick around, that you were willing to do everything they were asking so you could keep your job.”

“No, but I didn’t want—” I dug a heel into the pavement.

“Look, I know that this seems like a really lousy situation right now, but give it a few weeks and you’ll realize that it’s so much better things worked out this way. That place was making you miserable. You’re always working or stressed out that you should be working. I barely even see you anymore, and I sit four floors above you.”

Ouch. She was right, but it still stung. I stared down at the black splotches of petrified gum polka-dotting the damp pavement, feeling a hot flush creep up my neck.

“But you know what’s the best part about all of this?” she said. “You’ve been given this really cool, unexpected opportunity. This is your chance to cut the cord from work, to figure out something else to do with your life besides setting up base camp in your cubicle.”

“You mean, like not get another job? What else am I supposed to do?”

“Anything—as long as it’s different than what you’ve been doing every day for the past few years. Take some classes at the New School. Go on that big trip you’ve been talking about with Holly and Jen. E-mail editors and start freelancing. Haven’t you told me that you want to break into travel writing?” She looked at me expectantly.

“Eventually, but there’s no way I could do it now. You need to be, like, the next Bill Bryson to get an assignment from a major travel magazine. I’d have to get a lot more experience before I could even think of pitching a story to one of the glossies.”

“And how are you going to get that experience if you’re hanging out here?” Steph pressed. “You have to actually leave the island—and then you can write about the world.”

Leave New York? The very thought threw me into a panic. I’d just lost my job; I didn’t think I could handle losing my city, too.

“Regardless of what you decide to do from here, the hardest part is over. You may not have planned to leave, but you’ve outgrown your desk chair. It’s so obvious; you’re itching to challenge yourself, try new things. Don’t you think?”

I was still too shaken to see the bigger picture. “I guess. Maybe.”

“Don’t talk craziness. Of course you are,” she said, glancing down at the dial on her enormous watch. “Crap. I’ve got an interview that I’ve already rescheduled fifteen times. But don’t worry. If you start to question whether you did the right thing, just ask yourself, ‘Do I really need to work for a boss who wants me to improve my letter-opening skills?’”

It would have been kind of funny if it hadn’t been so true. Steph gave me a quick squeeze and bolted across Sixth Avenue just before the light turned green. A fleet of taxis streaked across the intersection, and she was gone.

Unemployment felt like a spa getaway compared with my last two weeks at the magazine. Once I’d used the company FedEx number to ship my stuff three miles north to the Upper West Side (my final act of rebellion) and organized my files for the next assistant (to prove that I wasn’t above it all), I found myself in workplace purgatory with no real responsibilities to call my own. Claire, who sat four feet from me, spoke to me only when vitally necessary. On my last day, she forced out a tight-lipped good-bye and slipped off without another word.

I knew I needed to put some kind of plan B into action. Common sense dictated that I update my résumé and scour career Web sites, but I found that I just couldn’t bear the thought of interviewing for a job. The truth was, I felt completely unnerved by the possibility of landing another full-time staff position. If I accepted a job and failed to live up to expectations, the reason wouldn’t be an insensitive boss or a miscommunication over jury duty—the problem would be me.

So I decided to blow off relative job security and guaranteed health insurance in order to give freelance writing a try, setting up shop with nothing more than my clunker of a laptop and some free business cards I scored from Vistaprint. I spent my wide-open days drafting e-mails to editors at other magazines to ask them if, by chance, they might have any small articles that needed to be written. I brainstormed ideas, wrote them up, and fired e-mails off into the ether. Several weeks went by without a single response or assignment, during which I started to become one with our futon. My roommates often returned home late at night to find me in the exact same position as they’d left me, eyes glazed over as I cradled the computer in my lap. Just as I was considering waitressing or temping or donating plasma—anything to avoid legitimate job hunting—I landed my first freelance assignment, a story for a kids’ magazine on bizarre tales of heroism by family pets.

Shortly thereafter, a women’s magazine editor asked me to write two pages on surprising ways your boyfriend could be making you sick (hint: friction is involved). Then a national newspaper assigned me a piece on how text messaging was transforming the face of dating and relationships. Within a few months, I’d secured enough work to keep me afloat and even put a chunk of cash away for a rainy day. I wasn’t doing a ton of travel writing, but my freelance career had taken off.

So had my social life. For the previous two years, it had been on life support, barely breathing, but it made a quick turnaround once I left the office. For the first time since I could remember, I spent my free time catching up on friends’ lives, rather than working through my bottomless to-do list. I accepted invitations to go to yoga classes and see movies. I arrived on time for happy hours instead of making excuses for missing them. I sharpened my pool skills, played darts, and rediscovered how to flirt. I went out on dates with inappropriate men, then commiserated with my girlfriends about the futility of finding a decent guy in Manhattan.

My days were laid back and calm, my nights intense and unpredictable. I stayed out far too late too often but no longer had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. I felt as if I’d moved to New York City all over again. But though I fully embraced this newfound freedom and felt more certain than ever that I’d made the right decision not to boomerang back into another job, I knew this couldn’t be the endpoint of my transition. There had to be some other destination, some reason things had worked out exactly the way they had.

Again and again, I found that my thoughts turned to travel, the vagabonding bug I’d caught from Baker and the plans I’d made with Jen and Holly back in Argentina. I allowed myself to consider what would happen if our idea to backpack around the world—a concept that had seemed so ephemeral months earlier—ever solidified into reality. Exactly what would it take to set the wheels into motion? Could I really leave the life I’d created in New York to go backpacking like a college kid?

In theory, I guess I could. My lease expired in about a year. I didn’t have a full-time job. Despite plenty of social activity, I’d yet to meet a guy I wanted to get serious with. I wasn’t sure whether to feel thrilled or depressed that, at twenty-six, I didn’t have a whole lot more tying me down than I had when I’d graduated.

Considering my commitment-free existence, I knew there would be few times in my life when it made more sense to travel. And I might have decided to do it on my own—or at least gone to Central America for a few months to hike through the rain forests, go to language school, and eat as many frijoles negros as my digestive system could handle—except that Jen and Holly sealed the deal for me.

The three of us had been meandering through the stalls at the 26th Street flea market, one of our favorite Saturday activities, when I asked them if they’d remotely consider making good on that wacky round-the-world idea we’d had at Iguazú Falls.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” Jen admitted.

“Me too,” said Holly, looking up from a tray of garnet rings she’d been examining. “I was half kidding when I said I’d go, but for some reason, it doesn’t really seem so far-fetched anymore. Would it really be so ridiculous to take a few months off before we all get tied down?”

“Not at all,” said Jen as we strolled past a rack of vintage dresses. “For argument’s sake, even if we started planning right now, we still wouldn’t be able to get on the road until next summer. By then Brian and I will both be twenty-eight, and if we haven’t determined our status at that point, I’m running away for sure.”

“Oh, that’s right…your age deadline.” I said. “Look, you and Brian will figure things out. You’ll have been together for nearly four years by then. I’m sure he hasn’t been with you this long unless he figures you’re marriage potential.”

“That’s the thing,” she said softly, an odd note creeping into her voice. “What if I don’t want to be marriage potential? If it doesn’t work out and I’m single all over again—then what?”

Holly, always the first to find the silver lining in every situation, spoke up.

“Well, then, you could spend your time planning the biggest adventure of your life,” she said, plopping a floppy hat with a massive brim on Jen’s head. “I mean, what would you rather spend the money on—rubbery chicken cutlets for a hundred and fifty guests and a white wedding dress, or a round-the-world plane ticket?”

“Do I have to answer that now?” Jen laughed as she frisbeed the hat back at Holly. She placed it atop her own burgundy-streaked bob and flashed Jen a silly tilted-head grin.

“Well, maybe if we play our cards right, we can have the chicken cutlets and the world,” I said, putting the hat back on the stand. “Just not in that order.”

We shopped our way through the market and eventually emerged into the late-afternoon sunshine.

“Hey, guys,” said Jen, walking between us. “About this trip. You know, I’m pretty sure I want to do it. Maybe not for a whole year, but I’d love to go back to South America. And maybe Kenya? You guys don’t have to do it with me, but I’ve always wanted to volunteer there.”

“Of course we’ll do that with you!” Holly jumped in, her jade green eyes flashing. “I’ve always wanted to see Kenya too! And Tanzania. And Rwanda. Do you think we could go visit the gorillas while we’re there?”

“Wait, are you being serious?” I asked, turning around so I could see the expression on both of my friends’ faces. “Is this really an option? We’re talking about a major life change here. As in quitting jobs. Leaving boyfriends. Living out of a backpack and sleeping in bunks and washing out your thongs in some grungy hostel sink. Not to mention staying together for months on end. Are we really ready to sign up for all of that?”

There was a long pause, and my heart started its downward descent. Hol and Jen glanced at each other, then back at me.

“Well, I’m totally serious,” said Jen. “We’ve all traveled before and know what we’re up against, underwear washing and all. And it’s not like we’re running away forever to, like, live with the gorillas or anything.”

“All I know is, we’ll never get another opportunity like this,” said Holly. “I’ve backpacked on my own. I’ve done it with a boyfriend. I don’t see how there’s any way I could pass up the chance to travel with the two of you. I mean, if we don’t decide to take a leap of faith and do it now, then when?”

“Well, if you’re in,” I said, almost afraid to believe what I was hearing—or saying. “So am I.”

“Me too,” said Jen, an irrepressible smile spreading across her features as she looked back and forth between Holly and me. “So I guess the only real question now is…when should we leave?”