In 6.5 years, I have moved seven times. Each time, it gets a little easier--I say good-bye a little more lightly, leave behind a few more belongings, learn to let out a little more of the baggage. Sure, it rips me apart to leave the people I love and with whom I have forged connections, but I am philosophical about it. Partings are a part of life. And each time I leave people and possessions behind, I become a little more self-reliant, a little more detached from physical possession (for example, there's a trail of stoneware across the U.S., abandoned to my various ex-boyfriends). And it's been a very long time--perhaps since the Florida years--that I felt I had a home. Thus, I say I'm "in exile."
I especially felt like that in Indiana, which is exceptionally sad. I loved Indiana--loved the climate, the scenery, the farmland, the seasons, the architecture, the anonymity. Problem was, Indiana didn't love me.
I found it hard, especially at first, to connect with people. Midwesterners are painfully reserved and socially awkward, and my open, free, doofy demeanor did not go over well. I suppose I made friends easily enough--after all, M. and I started dating pretty much immediately after I moved there (whoops! I tripped!!)--but forging connections, that took a little longer. And I felt the lack of it keenly.
And I was always sick in Indiana--within ten days of moving there, I had come down with a horrible sinus infection, caused by aggravated allergies, and a urinary tract infection. (Okay, so allergies did not cause the UTI. Other, more...uh...vigorous activities were the culprit of that). And the sicknesses just never really stopped. I was unable to smell anything during most of the almost-two years I was there.
But still, I loved Indiana. For a long time, I assumed I would be spending the rest of my life there, being a literacy librarian and living in a quaint Broad Ripple Bungalow and popping out argumentative babies with receding hairlines, big hips, and dysthymia. However...if you want to hear god laugh, make plans. In hindsight, I can say that I loved Indiana, but I don't think it was ever my home, not matter how hard I tried.
And now, I am here, in Southern California. On the way to work the other morning, as I looked out over the canyon, it occurred to me--This is home. I feel more right here than I ever did in Indiana. I might still be a nomad, but I am no longer in exile. The heat might melt me into a gooey pile of estrogen and sex appeal on a daily basis, but at least it happens in a place where I belong. There's a dozen little ways that I sense it: Katie, showing up on my doorstep and helping me assemble furniture, even though she had never met me before. One of the Library Assistants at work, who only knows me as the whacky new librarian, offers to drive me to the airport when I leave for Portland. When I bathe, I can inhale the scent of my toasted-vanilla-and-sugar body wash. I wake up in the morning to cats purring and nestled close to me. My Riverside mates laugh at the incredibly odd things that I blurt out at equally odd times. This is home.
Maybe it's nothing to do with the location, and everything to do with me. Unbidden, a memory from earlier in the spring floats into my head, me saying to my closest friends: "I can be happy no matter where I live. I am all that I need to make a happy life my reality." So maybe I would feel happy and at home, whether I lived in SoCal, or Mississippi, or Alaska (Alaska! Think of all the single men! It would be Mel-hunting season, all year 'round!). I'd like to think that's the case.
But I am still Mel, and I have my common sense and values. So here is my SoCal survival guide, to keep this place my happy home so long as I live here:
1. I will use SPF 10,000 on a daily basis.
2. I will not bleach my hair blonde.
3. I will attempt to journey to a beach or ocean (with afore-mentioned SPF 10,000) on a semi-regular basis.
4. I will not have casual sex. I'm not emotionally capable of it, and no change in geographic location will alter that.
5. I will stay here long enough to really enjoy this experience.
6. I will not buy anything on Rodeo Drive.
7. I will refrain from crying like a bitch with a skinned knee the next time there is an earthquake.
8. I will not get a boob job. (Thank goodness I don't actually need one).
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