For eight long years, I worked as a highly successful, well paid, and celebrated finance professional in Lower Manhattan. During that hectic, glamorous, enviable time, I secretly felt a gnawing truth inside that something wasn’t quite right. I hadn’t found my purpose. Sure, I was conventionally rich, successful, and attractive (and still am), but I hadn’t followed my soul’s calling. I felt empty inside. I yearned for something simpler, something where I could be more exposed to nature. I knew I had to do something.
So I quit my job and sold all my belongings and moved to the Caribbean island of Abura. I thought it was Aruba, known known for its friendly locals, slow-paced lifestyle, and beautiful beaches, but a clerical error landed me on Abura, a deserted stretch of volcanic ash known only for its horrible infestation of beach pests.
That’s right: I left my six-figure salary behind, and now the only thing gnawing at me are sand fleas. A lot of them. They’ve declared war on my tawny extremities, and are driving me slowly insane, one itchy red welt at a time.
But at the same time, I am grateful for my easy island life (easy apart from the constant itching). I live on a tropical island by myself—literally by myself! When they dropped me off they told me that the next sea plane wouldn’t be back for three months. But still, it beat the headaches of living in the city. I so needed this solitude, this beauty, this extraordinary sense of Being Alive and connected to some Eternal Truth that I just wasn’t getting in Manhattan. Also the constant bleeding sores—I definitely wasn’t getting that in Manhattan.
Sure, it’s a former nuclear test site that can now only sustain swarms of biting insects and a few short shrubs, but still—it’s an island. In the Caribbean! And I used to live in the city!! I mean, wow!!!
What I didn’t need was the relentless assault by these bloodthirsty bastards on my hands and feet and ankles. It itches so bad that sometimes I think of moving back home. Or maybe just cutting myself with a shell and wading, bleeding, out into the water to wait for sharks. I might do it. Every day I get a little closer.
But, deep down I know I need to be living to reach my higher purpose, Instagramming envy-inducing pictures of my beach and my perfectly toned body (Thanks, Equinox!). But now, thanks to these sand fleas, I mostly post pictures of my bites and tag dermatologist friends with the caption, “#isthisinfected”.
Being disconnected from society is freeing!! I can’t get great cell service here, so it’s impossible for people to bug me. Only bugs can bug me! Hahaha am I dying??? Can someone get in touch with those sea plane guys?
Anyway, my friends and family all thought I was crazy to leave my friends, boyfriend, and pension behind, but I didn’t listen to them. And now I’m covered in fleas. For me, I hate this. But for me, it’s right. For me, I am fleas now.
Till then, gotta go mate with a flea!! Everything is perfect!!