So, What’s Georgia Like?

My simple little life has become complicated in a most unexpected way. I don’t know where I’m from. This phenomenon appears in two distinct ways.

The first: a friend will ask me how I like Georgia. It seems like a perfectly rational question. I moved eighteen days ago. It would seem reasonable that I have some sort of impression of the place by now. Unfortunately, I really don’t know much more about it than I did before I moved.

Let me explain. I flew to Atlanta on July 4. The movers unloaded my stuff on the fifth. I spent the next couple days unpacking. I went into my new office on the ninth and tenth, then flew out on the evening of the tenth. That really doesn’t seem like sufficient experience on which to base an impression. I’ll be flying back on July 27th. Maybe by the end of the month I’ll be able to let you know what I think.

The second scenario: someone asks me where I’m from. Since I’m in training with 300 outgoing people, none of whom really know each other, this happens a lot. I clearly identify with Maine as the place I grew up. That’s who I am. But there are also those eleven years I spent in Utah. And the last three and a half in California. Not to mention my most recent week in Georgia. I think I’m beginning to have an identity crisis.

Perhaps I’m overcomplicating something that’s altogether common. But it doesn’t feel right yet to tell people that I’m from Georgia. And to tell them I’m from Maine isn’t the whole truth anymore either. To answer with either Utah or California would seem to be leaving out crucial elements of the story.

My solution? I make a judgment call. If it’s exceptionally loud, I’m exceptionally tired or just feeling lazy, I’ve been offering that my first rotation’s in Georgia. If I have time, or the person asking seems genuinely interested, I’ve been opting for, “That’s a complicated question . . .” That’s a phrase I’ve been using a lot lately.

147 Items and a Pedicure

147. That’s how many things were moved from my apartment in California to my apartment in Georgia. Three dozen books in a box equal one item. My beloved sofa equals two items. By my quick calculations, that’s about 140 boxes too many. Honestly, how does one single girl possibly need that much stuff? If I can reduce my number of items by 5% each time I move, by the time I’m done I can be down to 120 items. At this very moment there is a large pile of stuff in the guest bedroom just waiting to be taken to the local Goodwill/Salvation Army/Deseret Industries. And I haven’t even unpacked the boxes from my office. I figure I can throw away or donate at least one more box worth of stuff.

It’s not really about the amount of stuff. Although I did stop to think how much money I could save if I got rid of enough that I could live in a one bedroom. And I have been thinking about George Carlin’s bit about the only reason anyone needs a home: it’s a place to put your stuff. But what I’ve really been thinking about is the amount of time I’ll be spending putting it all away. Now, in fairness, the movers do unpack. But that does not mean what you think it means. It means that they take everything out of the boxes and leave it all in piles. Large piles. Good luck finding two shoes that match each other (forget about matching what you’re wearing). I don’t want to complain. It is incredibly helpful to have the boxes emptied and removed. Just somewhere around day two of “sort and stow” it lost it’s charm. The only way I made it through day three was by promising myself a manicure and pedicure.

Every nail place I’ve been to has slight variations in the ritual. The place around the corner from my new home offers supposedly-soothing background music. I may be in the minority here, but new age and pan flute are not necessarily relaxing to me. But I really don’t care about all the nuances. Especially at this point. I was just thrilled to be sitting down in a massage chair. When it came time to address my calluses (a perennial problem for my feet; I blame it on my penchant for walking around barefoot), the girl working on my feet got a worried look on her face. She then apologized for the fact that they don’t use a razor. They don’t ever use the razor. But this very strong chemical will work even better. The state board doesn’t allow the razor. But this is better; because when you use the razor on a callus it’s just like when you shave a baby’s head. It comes back thicker. Keep in mind that I never asked for the razor. I don’t care how my calluses are removed as long as my feet don’t snag the carpet when I’m done. Are there legions of people out there who complain about the absence of the razor? Was there a look on my face that indicated I was somehow dissatisfied?

I’ll probably be returning to this salon. It’s less than a half mile from my house, they have the brand of nail polish I like, and they did a reasonable job on my toes. And maybe next time I’ll get some more details on the razor. And, for those of you keeping score, my manicure color is “Hearts and Tarts” and my pedicure color is “California Raspberry.”