And Just Like That . . . A New Chapter Begins

New Townhouse

It’s often been said that when one door closes, another one opens. Of course, one usually hears this when they receive their walking papers from their employer, in other words, fired! This phrase, while sounding optimistic, is a rather odd thing to say to someone who finds themselves on the unemployment line. Yes, it’s meant to sugar coat a bad situation, but shouldn’t we be saying I’m sorry you got fired? Or if the situation merits it, “Good job loser, that was the fourth job you’ve been fired from, figure it out!” However, that may be a bit harsh, unless it’s true. It’s also been said that when one begins a new phase of their life, they begin a new chapter. If that’s the case, then I’ve been burning through the chapters of my life at a rather quick pace as of lately. I do hope that’s not an indication that the book of my life is nearing its end, but instead, it simply means I’m a quick reader, bored, restless, or all of the above, except for the ending part. Whatever the case may be, I should probably discuss it with my therapist as I do find myself once again starting a new chapter, in a new city.

               As chapters go, I’m a few pages in and am still struggling to find out what our heroine is up to. Maybe I should give it a bit longer. The move took place last weekend, which means I’ve spent the better part of the past week elbow-deep in carboard boxes, cursing myself and marveling at my questionable taste in impulse purchases. Apparently, I was planning on hosting an imaginary dinner party for twelve, given the number of boxes of dishes I unearthed. To my delight, I discovered I own three sets of dinnerware: two without matching bowls (because, why would bowls ever match?), one set that finally embraces bowl monogamy, a mountain of serving dishes, platters, and a stunning blue pasta set that makes me feel like I should be shouting “Mangia!” every time I serve spaghetti (which I’ve yet to do.) Since channeling my inner chef during the pandemic, I decided only Italian-made dishware would be good enough to grace by cabinets—my standards are high, my cabinets overflowing, and my wallet empty.

Escaping the chaos of cluttered rooms, and cardboard boxes that threaten to bury me, I escape to the quiet serenity of my courtyard. There I’m able to relax and enjoy the birds chirping and the hum of a lawn mower joyfully massacring the grass, until it hiccups on some mysterious yard relic left by a forgetful child or an adorable puppy. These little breaks have become my moments of Zen— a chance to leave cluttered rooms behind for quiet reflection. Well, they are as Zen as one can get while swatting away what appears to be extra-large mosquitoes that have opted to dine on my blood (I would have preferred a vampire bear, if they existed). It’s like they have no one else to feast on. If garlic makes vampires stay away, would it have the same effect on these creatures?

As I sit here and watch red bumps sprout all over my body, I take the time to reflect on the number of times I’ve moved. This one marks the sixth one in ten years – a number that some would say screams “commitment issues.” I prefer to call it an “Adventurous spirit.” I’m on a journey to find myself. This quest began when I left the foggy Golden Gate Bridge, behind and headed to the rainy, dreary, sun deprived land of Seattle for a much-needed employment opportunity. That stay turned out to be a short trip, as I then headed to its much smaller, yet equally grey, quirkier sister city of Portland where my little gay wings first sprouted. What was supposed to have been a heartfelt reunion, turned out not to be. Like many of the awkward sitcom reboots we seem to be subject to these days, this sitcom turned out to have a short run as well. The city and I had grown apart; our plot lines went in two different directions. Like a well-rehearsed actor, I knew my exit cue and headed for the dollar store version of Las Vegas, The Biggest little City in the World, Reno, Nevada. There one encounters fiberglass replicas of Greek Gods, frayed carpet in the casinos, and plywood covering the entryway to many shuttered buildings. So, it should be no surprise that this city would become a strategic pit stop, as it was a move to be reconnect with friends and to work on my book, before launching myself into the wild gaiety and endless beignets, Hurricanes, the drink not the weather, of New Orleans. A city that will forever echo in my soul—half jazz, half powdered sugar, a few regrets, and several life lessons.

What will this new chapter bring? I haven’t got a clue. I do approach it with an emotional cocktail of mild terror, cautious optimism, and a generous (heavy, heavy, heavy pour) of anxiety. The city that I now call home never made my hmm, what would it be like living there, list, but the lure of no state income tax and a cute townhouse proved tempting. Looking back, with drink in hand, I notice I’ve burned through chapters like a binge-reader with commitment issues. Some stories I finished, others I abandoned, and a few I scorched from my memory because the plot and characters just weren’t working out. If nothing else, each place, and each chapter taught me something about my favorite heroine: me. I’ve figured out my likes, my dislikes, and my non-negotiables. One city brought me to the depths of depression, while the next taught me how to claw my way out . .  and survive. Most importantly, one chapter showed me how to pursue happiness, set boundaries, and—most crucially—to put myself first. Turns out, self-care isn’t just a trending hashtag

So, here I sit, a patio vigilante, swatting at oversized and unknown insects, watching a red ant scaling the doorframe like it owns the place. What does the future hold? (For me, not the ant.) Who knows, but I’ve proven to myself, yet again, that I’m stronger than I’ve always thought. I’ve proven that I can uproot myself for the sake of growth (or possibly just to keep my moving boxes in constant rotation). While some people balk at dining alone, I’ve turned solo relocation into an extreme sport. If they gave out medals for this, I’d have a wall full of them. Brave? Crazy? The answer depends on if one was to ask my mother or my therapist. One will say I’m crazy and will threaten to write me out of the will, and the other will say do it. (You decide who said what.)  But truly, the last few years have been all about learning about me!  New Orleans gave me several lessons, but now I’m ready for the next semester of life. This is my time to put all those hard-earned insights into practice—to live with my eyes open, to write my story, and to finally build the life I've always thought was reserved for other people. And, fingers crossed, that the soundtrack to Jurassic Park playing in the distance is a sign that a neighbor has an awkward taste in music and is not a warning of prehistoric predators about to attack. Because honestly, if I have to fight off dinosaurs, I hope at least one of them offers me sweet tea. After all, it is the polite southern thing to do!