I’ve been home for a few weeks now and the the first tube of Midwestern toothpaste was quickly initiated as I gave myself a good look in the mirror. The sound of brushing bristles filled the upstairs hallway as I studied myself standing there in mismatched pajamas. I was wearing an oversized Alpha Gamma Delta barn dance t-shirt from two thousand twelve and pastel striped pants gifted by the Easter bunny when I was in sixth grade. In that particular moment, I felt proud of myself, so completely in awe of where I just came from. I was totally perplexed by the swirly series of my own thoughts transformed into life-changing actions. Dripping with old memories made of cotton, I couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it all.
If you know me or have heard of my recent stories, you know I love a good sign. I’m not sure if it’s the big shift of a cross-country move but my eyes have opened wider than ever and I can’t stop encountering fluke after fluke. I’ve never felt so intended to be here and, in a good way, I think I have started to lose some of my chill about it. The intricate details of direction have not gone unnoticed. Rather, they have me obsessing over God’s generous trails of evidence.
Sensitivity spikes when even the smallest of realizations are made. It is sad to say, but true. I lived in San Francisco for two years without ever meeting my neighbors. I lived in tight, dorm-like quarters, yet never matched a face to the sound of their high-pitched sneezes or hairball hacks, which often wafted through my open windows.
I like how my mom can call her next door neighbors on-the-spot for a dinner ingredient that she swore she had but can’t find in the depth of her pantry. It was sweet to encounter a high school acquaintance at Target on a Sunday afternoon who was also running errands with his mom. For the longest time, I was the stranger in blue and white or, depending on the day, black and gold, spreading cheer so loudly for meaningless touchdowns to the people around me. Last weekend, across a crowd of Colts fans, I spotted a random guy wearing an SF 49ers jersey. I should have told him that his team means something to me, too.
Around the Shutterfly office, I was known for gasping phrases out-loud such as, “Oh, golly!” during a project crisis. It was always pointed out in humor and goodwill that I come from the sweet species of the Midwest. Not to my surprise, I didn’t get a ton of good knee-jerk reactions from the Californians when I shared I was moving back to Indiana. Despite the discerning questions, nose flares and small digs to the Circle City, I personally received the warmest of hugs and proclaimed feelings of true happiness for me and my Midwestern future.
The matter of fact is, Indianapolis doesn’t hold an obvious industry that particularly favors my desired career path or quirky skillset. Since the second I left, I have internally struggled to visualize how I will ever fit back, but damn, life is good here. I will never regret the time I lived in a land far, far away and a part of me still considers another chapter for more discomfort and exploring. I’m happy it took a passionate love affair with the left coast to confidently know that my heart actually feels the fullest at home.
My boss, who has become an important friend, offered some food for thought that I’ve been chewing on for a while. She told me not to feel discouraged by the preordained expectations of a certain place. From her experience, (which she has a lot of), some of the best opportunities to channel creativity are found in unexpected places. I'm clinging to this hope and I’m a stronger believer that I can make my dreams come true from anywhere.
I used to call my parents huffing and puffing while trekking up San Francisco’s unforgiving, never-ending hills with heavy bags full of groceries and cut-off circulation in at least one of my arms. A few times I even had the nerve to lug home my favorite fruit (watermelon) which was a far-fetched idea for a car-less girl in the hilly city. Most days I tried to be happy with my situation, but getting around, even with the desire to socialize, was incredibly inconvenient and it quickly turned me into an old bitter woman. When I wasn’t going to or from the office fluorescents, I longed for more hours in the day to indulge in the richer things in life.
In the chaos of my exit, I struck a sweet deal that’s allowing me to temporarily make money from the kitchen table in my extra-soft, mismatched pajamas. My dog, Abe, who loves endless belly rubs, thinks it’s just as great of a deal as I do. Without having to skip a beat, I’m continuing to work remote as a full-time Shutterfly designer. Waking up with three extra hours each day feels like an answered prayer in my life (except on Friday evenings when 5 p.m. EST hits and I’m still answering emails from the West coast.) Still, it usually doesn’t stop me from cracking open a brewski when my dad walks through the door. Life in this time warp is slightly alienating and definitely not permanent, although, I’m grateful for the opportunity to catch my breath, stay cozy, pay off some debt and reunite with my OG roommates. They like to make me food and give the world’s best advice!
Last night, we celebrated my MawMaw at her seventy-seventh birthday party and it was much lovelier to be there in person rather than via the FaceTime app. Abe about lost his mind when the UPS guy ding-dong-ditched our front porch. Alas, the last trace of proof that I lived in the Golden State was finally found. Nine beaten up boxes full of accumulated stuff, bursting with fuzzy sweaters and wild West memorabilia made their way back to me. I didn’t personally show up quite as battered and bruised although I did walk off the plane feeling the most fragile I’ve ever felt, overflowing with tears and high emotion.
I just finished unpacking everything into my closet, which, despite the insane rent I’ve blown month after month, I have sacrificed without such a space. (Closets are a privilege.) I’ve been catching up with old friends over coffee and martinis and running into other friendly, familiar faces with warm open arms while out and about. My anonymous reputation surely didn’t follow me like the boxes did but I can still feel the essence of a beautiful reinvention.
There’s disbelief that I turned twenty-five this year. It echoes in my wake. A few folks down the street have thought I’ve been seventeen for about four years now. Maybe it’s because I’ve already assumed my favorite spot on the couch and my mom just told me to go clean my room. Although, it’s funny how the cushions hold my body so differently after a few years on my own quiet and courageous path.
I'm learning to embrace the vulnerability and astound beauty of the twenty-fifth year. To all the stories I’ve witnessed that have become my framework— I’m breaking it all apart.
Twenty-five looks like a flight to Oktoberfest in Munich with my best friend. It’s is a strong body in Lululemon leggings and the Elite Orange Theory membership. It’s social liaisons and invisible guards going down. It’s eye-rolls at bills and inundating my dad with questions about taxes. It’s sparkly eyeshadow and eggshell blue eyeliner. It’s a lucky jumpstart for any kind of good. It’s gratitude but still wanting a-heck-of-a-lot more. It’s a unique, selfish and trialing age inside another one of those tricky time warps.
The afterglow of the big shift is still shining bright even though my homecoming has become old news fast. I’ve had watermelon for breakfast almost everyday. It really didn’t take long to welcome myself back into familiar routines and the dust is settling in just as naturally as me. Symphonies of cicadas sing me to sleep as the thoughts in my head compete for the title of world’s loudest. I’m floating on nostalgia, reminiscing about a wild West story and enjoying a new lifespan of spicy cinnamon toothpaste.