17 Months

This past June, a year from when I moved to London, I was grumbling to my sister about things that frustrated me about living abroad. She gently put her hand on my arm and said "Sissy, do you know what they tell missionaries? That it takes 18 months acclimate to your new home. Just give it time." I am pretty sure I rolled my eyes at her. I had given it a year, I was pretty sure that was long enough to know that my frustrations and annoyances were not dissipating any time soon.

And then, a few weeks ago, I was walking down the high street in my neighborhood and I realized, I liked it here. I wasn't grumpy or uncomfortable. No one looked at me like I was out of place (i.e. the startled look I would always get the moment I opened my mouth with my American accent).

I felt -- *comfortable*.

I also felt like Oprah was in my head explaining to me that I'd had an a-ha moment (not to be confused with an A-ha moment where you accidentally starting singing "Take on Me"). Yep. I was officially acclimated. And then I started counting...17 months, to the day. I beat those missionaries by a month. So here I was, an expat, who finally felt ok about her expatriation and new home, one month ahead of schedule.

You know what else takes 17 months?

Me and the killer whales. Making it through life together.