The first time I sat down to eat dinner alone at a restaurant was at an Olive Garden in Phoenix, Arizona. Six hours prior I had packed all of my earthly belongings into my car in preparation for a cross-country move that, unbeknownst to me at the time, would land me on the East Coast for almost a decade. As I reminisce about that road trip, I find it hard to believe that I was ever 22 years old, and even harder to believe that everything I owned fit inside my 2003 Volkswagen Jetta.
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