I’m so sick of living where I do.

Right now, I live in the high desert, but I was born in the deep south. And right now, I’m missing it something fierce (although that could be in part due to the fact I’ve been listening to country music for two days).

I miss the sheets  of rain. I miss muggy summer nights (we could describe them as sultry, because they were, but that seems to be over-romanticizing it just a bit). I miss lightning bugs and lush forests and the smell of magnolias. I miss the wilderness. I miss the accents, because out here, the only ones who have an accent is me (and only if I’m drunk or really pissed off–most of the time, I sound exactly like everyone else) and my kids’ pediatrician. 

There are things about the high desert that are great: the four seasons, the fact that I know just about everyone in this town, despite its size. The town’s grown pretty big over the last (almost) three decades I’ve been here, but those of us who went to elementary, middle and high school, not the mention college, out here… well, we’re all related to one another. In a way, it’s nice to know just about everyone: it’s a rare day I can go anywhere and not know someone.

But it’s boring, too. I never got out, except during college when I got a scholarship to go to Europe for nine months. Which, incidentally, was the most fun, the most crazy, thing I’ve ever done in my life. And a part of it was that I didn’t know anyone, and I could do whatever I wanted (within reason, because I am, and always was, a very reasonable girl), without having to live up to the expectations that everyone else had for me. Because no one knew me there, I could just be whoever I wanted to be.

Here, if I’d done a third of the stuff I did in Europe, my father would have heard about it and had my hide. Hell, he heard about the time I got into a snowball fight outside of a bar, fell down and slid under a car parked on Virginia Street. Ironically, I hadn’t been drinking. But I hadn’t even been home for more than a few hours when Dad called and said he didn’t necessarily approve of my actions.

It was a stinking snowball fight. Not even a drunk snowball fight, just a snowball fight. Just because I fell down doesn’t mean anything: I’m clumsy on my best day, and it was slippery. 

I wonder what he would do if he knew about the stuff I did in Europe… Maybe one day I’ll tell him. Ha! Only if I wanted him to have a heart attack. No matter that it was 15 years ago…

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not bad here. I have a job I love, and I do like the four seasons, and the mountains are nice. So are the few lakes we have around here.

But, Lord, I want out. Twenty more years, and then I can retire and move. Maybe I’ll actually get to pick where we go.

And then I’ll over-romanticize the high desert.

MCC

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “”

  1. We never claimed Nevada until we moved to Oregon. Seriously, I never could own it until we were gone! And now I’m all about “Oh, it’s so DRY there” and “Blue skies!” Of course, since my family is there, I have no desire to go back, but… 😉

    Anyway, it’s a grass is greener deal. I am FREAKED OUT to live in MD again. To start in a new place. Take another bar exam (ugh). To do what I swore I’d never do to my kid: move her around. I’m scared I’ll end up stuck on the east coast forever.

  2. Darlin’, you are always welcome up here in the Land of Wet. However, we only have two seasons, wet and really wet (currently in really wet until about May). And we have grey skies, not blue. But we do have accents! People here say “beg” when they mean “bag” and “warsh” when they mean “wash.” I know, not as sexy as the South, but hey, you could do worse…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s