Apparently I’m really leaving. This shouldn't be a surprise. I've known since March that I was going to move, and I found out in May that I’d be going to Georgia. But somehow it hasn't been real. That is, it wasn't real until Monday. That’s when they put my couch on a moving truck and headed east. (At least I hope they headed east. I won’t be able to confirm that for another week.) I had no idea that my sofa carried any emotional weight, but, once it was gone, it finally hit me that there’s no turning back.
I’m excited about the new job and this amazing adventure. Moving every six months is bound to push the boundaries of my comfort zone. And now it’s close enough that I’m even a little nervous. Am I really qualified to learn a whole new business and function every six months?
But, with less than six days left in California, I keep thinking about the things I haven’t done here yet. I never had a hot dog at Pinks. Never drove up Mulholland. Never saw the grunion (although the conditions are supposed to be right for them on Monday . . . maybe I’ll see them yet).
I’m feeling more than a little wistful as I prepare to leave. Not that many years ago I thought that I would never want to live in Southern California. And, when I first moved here, I spent a lot of time making fun of Orange County (it really is such an easy target). Now I realize that after fifteen years of searching I've finally found home. I suppose I’ll start working on a trail of breadcrumbs so I can find my way back.
