This morning I was shaking off a late night at one of my oldest friend’s weddings in Western Mass, where I grew up. I made my Pops — who is also not a morning person — stop at the first Dunkin Donuts on the way to the airport, where I uncomplainingly stood in line behind a bunch of butch hicks for an iced coffee, “regular,” meaning: full of cream and sugar.
A half a day and several murderous revenge fantasies about United Airlines later, I was anxiously waiting in line once again—this time to get off the plane in San Francisco—when I overheard the bossypants stranger in front of me giving her neighbor across the aisle unsolicited advice about making her connection. (Our plane was late, making my travel weekend an unbroken record of flights delayed for no reason. Thanks United, you’re awesome! < sarcasm)
Bossypants: “All you have to do is believe you are going to make that flight. If you truly believe it, you’ll make it.” Never mind that the poor dear’s flight was scheduled for 8:45 and we landed at 8:57. I felt like butting in: “What are you? Glenda the good witch?” But I have a policy about talking to strangers.
And therein lies my struggle with where I belong. When I spend time Back East, I know in my heart that those are my people. In the 2+ days I was in Western Mass, not once did I endure a conversation about manifesting, positivity, yoga, the ethics of eating meat or the playa.
Yet, somehow, miraculously, people do seem happy and fulfilled back there. I’d deign to say that watching half of my high school football team dance their faces off to old school pop on the dance floor was as close to JOY as I’ve gotten in a long time. Old friends! If you ask me, time spent with people you have big love for (and long history with) trumps being “on a path” any day.
On the other hand, I do so love California and the West Coast. The fresh air, the ocean, the miles of wild coastline, the coyotes, the flowers year-round, the sunshine, the fog, the rain, the spirit of adventure that originally settled the West and endures to this day. I love my creative, adventurous, compassionate, thoughtful friends. And I love that in California you can be anyone you want to be.
Although sometimes, ironically, the girl I want to be has her heart where she grew up in tiny rural Ashfield, Massachusetts, where life is simple and sweet and my mom’s immortal cat Tessa has so far lived to the ripe old age of 23 without ever once going to the vet or the animal acupuncturist. She has never eaten a raw food diet (except for squirrels caught in the back yard) or gotten treated with kid gloves at all. Just fresh air, spring water, plenty of time spent outside, and good simple living. That seems to be Tessa’s secret. And I think she’s on to something.
By the way, this is not a fluke. My mom’s last two cats also lived to be about a million years old each.
