Am I Really Saying Goodbye…Again?

Today I found a hole in my favorite sweater. Crap.

While thinking of ways to disguise the rather large gap (hmm, maybe a decorative button), it dawned on me the appropriateness of this sweater/hole metaphor: I too have a bit of a tear, in my heart.

Yep, I’m moving…again.

My time in Massachusetts seemed to be one of an extended holiday. I went to the beach, a lot. I ate and drank, a lot. I took long walks, all the time. And of course, I made amazing connections and friendships that I will forever keep.

Wow, it sucks saying goodbye to them.

Growing up I moved around, a lot. I would say my farewells (some tearful, some thank-God-I-don’t-have-to-deal-with-your-banoney-anymore) to my friends, teachers, school, boyfriends, and neighborhoods. Then off my family went into the sunset like a band of gypsies to a new home, new adventure, and new school uniforms…because my dad was on the lamb. Just kidding, it was his job and the military that moved us around, but running from the law sounds better.

I used to play a little game with myself so I would not be so sad leaving my current location. I called it the, “Something new – it’s going to be so exciting” game. Instead of worrying about who I was going to sit with at lunch, I would think about how much cooler this cafeteria was going to be. Sadness about leaving a boyfriend behind was replaced by thoughts of, “Surely there is someone just as ‘fine’ out there who listens to Heavy Metal like me, instead of Milli Vanilli.” When worries crept in about all the laughter I would miss because I was leaving behind my best friend, I imagined all the new people I would meet, all the new places I would go, and the new person I could be.

Those cookie-peddling Girl Scouts had it right: Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold. I could forever keep in my heart friends and experiences, while my head was wrapping itself around a new school schedule, locker, and climate.

Sometimes, before moving forward, it is fun to look back at where we’ve been. I thought I’d share with you some of the goodies I gathered during my past re-locations:

Move – Tulsa, OK.  I was into Duran Duran and jellies (ladies you remember those). There were lots of Tornados that allowed me to sit in my walk-in closet and listen to Thriller and Lionel Richie on my walk-man.  Friend Bonus – My friend Sascha and her family took me under their wings like a small bird – which I was compared to my BFF. Sascha was a foot taller than me so we often resembled a puppeteer and his marionette walking around the mall.

Move – Littleton, CO.   This move only lasted ten months, half of which was spent living at a Residence Inn while we waited to close on the house and my sister dealt with repetitive nose bleeds (altitude, not cocaine – she was eight people!). Somehow I bawled my eyes out and was NOT happy about leaving the mile high city. Friend Bonus – My friend Sarah’s family took me in so I could stay a few extra weeks there while we listened to Pyromania and prank called people. I left my boyfriend and his sweet center-parted hair. A sad day.

Move – Dallas, TX. It took me a year to adjust to all the bedazzled denim-ware and large hair. I know it was the eighties, but ain’t no hair like Texas-sized hair. Friend Bonus – My BFF Kris. Her family harbored and fed me like a refuge, letting me stay over during play practice b/c my family lived in North Dallas, which was like living in another state. Also, the Big D is in my blood now, along with a severe addiction to Tex-Mex.

Move – Arlington, VA. It was really Annandale, but nobody knows where that is. I made this moving during my senior year of HS – yeah, I know, and no, my parents are not sadists. This school took a while to accept me with my loud talking and purse matching my shoes and scrunchy ways. I finally broke them down. Friend Bonus – Friends to this day.

The list continues on from there, but those were the beginnings.

Growing up, and even sometimes in adulthood, I always envied those friends who grew up in one place, one home, and had friends from the first grade who always had their back. I’ve seen those friends get into fist fights just because their friend needed help – no explanation necessary.  I would think to myself, “Wow. Wouldn’t it be great if I had those kinds of rooted friendships? They are like family.”

Guess what. I do.

Somehow, throughout this life, I have gathered friends who would go to bat for me, donate a kidney if I needed it, or wipe snot off my child’s face. Sometimes I knew these people for years, others months, always the same result.

I have done some pretty stupid things in my life. Like: let-me-color-my-roots-with-this-last-box-of-hair-dye-left-at-CVS-how-pink-can-it-really-be? Stupid. But the one thing that I have been Mensa candidate smart about is choosing friends. And by choosing, I mean, I luckily got chosen.

I swear I have guardian angels looking out for me BIG TIME in this department. I’m pretty sure they drive Harleys with a giant colander weeding out all the bad eggs and leaving me with all the gold nuggets of friends.

Today, as I wipe away tears (trust me, there are a lot of them) and say goodbye to my wonderful friends on the North Shore of Massachusetts, I get to walk into the hugs of another set of amazing friends back in the Lone Star State.

I may have a hole in my sweater, but the fibers of my friendships are beyond strong.

So pony up, here I go on another adventure. Stick with me guardian angels, I’ll need it.

Especially travelling in a car with a dog, a child, my mother, and way too many Selena Gomez songs on repeat.

Seriously guardian angels, bring back up…and a bottle of Merlot.

Advertisements

Am I Really Buying This Belly Chain/Dolphin Pencil/Burn Your Face Off BBQ Sauce When I Know I’ll Never Use It?

I’m having a yard sale this weekend. Please come and buy all my crap-ola.  I don’t know how I accrue all this shizzaz. It’s as if I wake up one day and realize I will be on the next episode of Hoarders.

I don’t get it. Why, why, why do I purchase items that I know down deep will only collect dust, or rot in the back of the refrigerator?  My purchases are like those stupid captcha words you have to type in when buying concert tickets to the House of Blues. The font is a cross between a three-year-old’s scrawl and realvirtue (Who the hell uses that font? Probably the same three people who eat at Arby’s.).  Unnecessary is my point here.

I think the answer has less to do with frivolous spending, and more so with, “Oh cool! I want to be that person who wears a Roman Goddess-style belt.”

I’m not though. I look at the belt and then I put on my pants with a hole in the pocket. But I want to be that person. That person seems cool, and hip, and healthy. That chick is going to parties with bottle service and laughing about silly lame women stuck in the carpool line. She probably also owns a Jeep. Bitch.

Sometimes I want to buy a new something something and be the cool person I think  would wear/eat/use that item.

Below are some items which I have purchased (some more than once) in my vain attempt to be that person:

  • The book The Secret and a couple other warm and fuzzy how to succeed in life books. I usually read at the first chapter, realize I have to make some type of collage to get my dream home by the sea, and then find I am out of glue. Spiritual Self Help Books = masking themselves as craft books.
  • An extra, extra long striped scarf. This was my attempt to go Bohemian. I saw the scarf and thought, “Oh, I will wear this and my glasses while writing in a dirty coffee house that smells like Arabica beans and poor hipsters.” Unfortunately for the scarf I am super short, creating a Swiffer mop scenario for the too-cool-for-school scarf. Trendy Scarf = HoarHcrammed in the back of the closet.
  • Fresh kale. I still have no idea how to cook this damn plant, but a magazine boasted of all its vitamins, anti-aging properties, and the possibility of balancing my check book. So there it sat in my crisper until it turned yellow. Super Healthy food = someone else needs to cook this sh*t.
  • Yet another journal. Many a tree has died for the sole purpose of me buying the decorative covered notebook and writing on one page: Pay Electric Bill, Out of Peanut Butter, and Children with Animal Faces. Then I dutifully misplace said notebook, only to buy another one a couple of months later. Yes, I eventually use these paper books, but it seems like a waste. Sassy Journal = a felled redwood and forgotten story idea.

Bottom line – I like being me. So should you. It’s fun to try on different styles and personas, just don’t forget what you’re all about.

This weekend, as I watch strangers buy my un-wanted shirts, old baby gear, and those stupid candle holders I never used, I will feel clean. A new beginning to carve out a new piece of myself so I can go out and get new stuff to match the new and improved me.

And maybe remember to buy that damn peanut butter.