Happy Anniversary to me

It was two years ago on July 5 that I stood in a blue tank top and ripped up jeans outside my parents’ house in Arizona. I took a picture with my mom next to the UHaul that held my belongings. That picture is important because it may be one of the last times I ever move that my life fits, so nice and tidy, into a box on wheels. There’s such beauty in simplicity, in having and needing so little, and a large part of me hopes, now, that I will always have a bit of that in me. That I will always adore life’s smaller treasures. The scent of jasmine that hovers about Brentwood; the slicing of an orange; clean sheets on a Sunday.

It’s that simplicity that will make me always miss college and that old cruddy apartment that I used to live in just a block from Mill Avenue. Luxurious? Far from it. Disgusting? At times (roaches at midnight!). But home? Of course, and it was in that little room in the sky in Tempe that I changed and morphed and lived and experienced. As though it were a time machine, when I moved out of that box in the sky I was not the same girl I was when I moved in.

And the same goes for when I moved into my little Brentwood Box….*ahem*…the Brentwood Chateau, as I prefer to call it, just two years ago. Now is the sweetest of anniversaries because I shattered my life’s mold! I broke away from that one river I was swimming in and decided, instead, to move to the ocean. It was the autumn after I moved here that I timidly asked a new friend, “Do you ever think it’s too late to find yourself?” And they responded, quick and sure, “I want to say it’s never too late.”

I wonder who I would be if I hadn’t had come to this strange and contradicting city by the sea. Would I have such affection for food? Would it be just as common for me to ask my gay and lesbian friends about their dates this past weekend as it would be for me to ask my straight friends? Would the men I date be as cultured and just pure interesting as they are now (Art! Food! Wine! Travel!). Would I scoff at and shoot down all the stereotypes that exist about LA; would I have discovered that the people out here are not entirely fake and superficial but flip flop-wearing, sunshine-loving types who don’t sport a ton of make-up and would rather explore the hills any day of the week versus shop?

I can only speculate. I wonder how long I will be out here. This city is an undertow. My friends and I, we’ve come here from many corners and perhaps, that first year, there were stars in our eyes and a bit of resistance. “Oh, this is only for a year, maybe two.” But how funny that second year is, when you pull into your drive or walk around your neighborhood and you’re not sure what it is but you feel at home. You’re not the tourist any more but the tour guide.

And so it was last night that I sat at a wine bar in Santa Monica with a good friend and we played a game and sipped wine and laughed. And at one point, I paused and looked at her and thought to myself, “I’m so glad she’s in my life! How did this happen?” And I didn’t exactly take note of my two-year LA-versary but my heart took note and took pause.

And that’s it. I’m glad I am here.

Maybe it’s just that simple.