Hometown Glory
I am willing to guess that most people do not end up living in the house NEXT to the house they grew up in. How that all happened is another story for another day. A quick search on Facebook confirms that of the 528 people “I am friends with” (70 I grew up with) not a single ONE currently resides in this hometown of ours. I suppose nationwide numbers might present some small percentage, but I imagine the amish skew those numbers with their many children who never stray from the buggy. Oh, and communities in Oregon.
This is not to say that I am upset or feeling downtrodden for moving back to my hometown. My life is far from a low-budget Lifetime movie where the lead female character leaves the fancy city life due to a lame relationship plot twist and ops for a ‘simpler life’ rooted back in her roots. But it is strange to be back in a place where so many things occurred that I paid so much money to sit on a couch and ‘unpack’ in sessions of 50 minutes. I almost want to call up my therapist and yell “REMEMBER WHEN YOU TOLD ME TO GO BACK TO THAT PLACE?! I’M F’ING LIVING IN THAT PLACE”. click. ( I kid, I kid, a little therapy humor…)
The dilemma I currently face is determining how to embrace a new environment that seems somewhat familiar. When experiencing the rituals of settling you explore and become familiar by getting totally lost and driving in circles. That hasn’t happened for me. I’ve so far located the most promising late-night martini bar (Nick’s) and the coffee joint within beach cruiser-cruising distance. The barista’s are starting to remember my drink and the woman at the dry cleaners is on to me, the new arrival in a sleepy beach town that for some unknown reason has a black lace dress.
But the good news is that I am a little more rested, living in flip-flops, wearing a little less make up, reading a little more, spending time with my family and there isn’t the local tranny-hooker on my door step. I suppose that’s how I know I am home.
