Big Girl finds Home

How Long 'till I go Home

During the dog days of summer, I wonder why I left the cool ocean breezes of San Diego, the pink into purple and then misty gray violet sunsets. I wonder aloud how anyone could have survived without air conditioning, in a tenement building during the turn of the century (when, as the news reports, it was the hottest). And often I pose this question to no one inparticular, How long 'til I get to go home?

I grew up feeling like I would never ever leave the Golden state of California, the ocean, mountains and desert all within an hour's drive (depending on traffic). That I would meet and marry my high school sweetheart, have three kids by 27 and own not only a house but a minivan/station wagon//SUV gas sucker. I would spend evenings carting around children to various play rehearsals, dance recitals, soccer and football practices. I would stand in the bleachers and yell when my kid hit the ball, knowing full well that he is just as scared of a 40 MPH ball being hurled at him as I am. I would celebrate accomplishments by driving to 31 Flavors and getting double scoops, just as my parents had done with me. Evenings would be spent barbeque-ing hot dogs and hamburgers as the kids swam in the pool, soon to be wrapped in towels fresh from the dryer.

Instead, my high school sweetheart never materialized, nor did the college sweetheart, not the 20-something man-boy. So I moved to follow my passion. I think. At the time it seemed logical, move to be closer to my parents (who, incidentally were forced from their bliss into CT, deperately searching for some kind of Mexican food to remind them of home), to become something in the theater, to be closer to NYC. The capital of it all. The cartoonish fantasy of having a job that made a difference, and being someone that people back home would be jealous of, was just that, a fantasy.

But I stayed.

I moved into the City, with the help of two friends, and became a New Yorker. Becoming a New Yorker is instantanious. It happens when you move in, and recieve your first piece of mail, with your name on it. It proves to someone that you live in this great Metropolis, that you are part of the living breathing machine of NYC. You now become the tour guide for wayward tourists, the flop pad for friends from back home, a reference guide for all things designer, coutre, or city-like. People, not from here, are in awe of you, your job is that much more exciting, your life is that much more fabulous, and you actually become even more glamourous than you thought possible. And you become settled.

After a while, peole get to know your face, and eventually your name. They recognize you on the street, and may mumble a "Hi" if provoked. You move into your apartment after three years of living out of boxes, actually paint the walls, and your furniture is bought, not dragged in off the street. You make friends, and they become your family-- you do weddings, birthdays and parties, and you get to intimately know the local car service drivers. You know the "best" take out places, the "only" 24-7 deli, and the great place to get coffee and Hummentasha (and actually know what that is) on a Sunday morning. You wear shoes that are comfortable to walk and stand in, and sometimes, with the right amount of cash, you can actually wear those "nice shoes" out to a bar, because you have enough to take a cab home. And you start feeling as glamourous and carefree that everyone back home thinks you are.

Every once in a while, the weather shifts into overdrive-- the blistery cold of the winter, the melting humidity of the summer, and you are holed up in your apartment, away from the elements, watching MTV or TLC or BBC and you think, what am I doing here?. All the bad stuff comes out, the garbage smells, you have no equity because you can barely afford rent, much less an apartment for sale, the guy downstairs is playing his cello again at 4:30am, the early morning subway crush with the guy that's going to play the saxaphone loud and out of tune, and the fact that you are alone, with no one to spend the time with because he's holed up at his apartment somewhere else.

So I wonder still, how long til I get to go home?

And the weather clears up, and the sun comes out, and the humidity dips or the snow melts. I walk outside to get a breath of fresh air, and say hi to my neighbors on the stoop, to Jack and Sammy at the Deli, and to the nice woman who sells me my paper every day, who yells "Hello Friend" (which are the only two words she knows in English) from her third floor walk up. And I discover something. The fantasy of California is just that, good memories with a big "what if". This is home, my home. With all the good, and all the bad. Being here makes me stronger, feel more alive, as I brave the elements and the City itself, constantly battling against something to get to where I need to be.

Home.

Never thought I'd say it, but I am home.

For now.