Five Friendly Faces

"The [redacted] place is wonderful. Perfect even, if there is such a thing. I love, love, love that area. The girls I met last night were great. Kind, down to earth, put together, well spoken... The people tonight were funny. And honest. And asked good questions. And laid back. And I wanted to put on a pair of sweats and watch tv with them and let them make fun of my silly questions."

When I rolled over in this morning's early light and found that what I fell asleep wanting - something so new and unexpected - hadn't faded overnight,  I realized that this weekend it took me 665 words describing my past to get to the place in the post where I could barely describe what I wanted in the present.

When I got back last night from looking at another apartment, this one with five friendly faces and time spent getting to know me - rather than showing me which cabinets held the baking pans, I tried to write a friend an email about my evening, about the apartment, about the people. It didn't quite hit my goal of coherent. She's used to this, so I hit send anyway.

She emailed me back this morning, and despite my stream-of-consciousness non-sequitors, she wrote, "I hear where your heart is- and I think you do too! BUT no matter what, whatever choice you make will end up being the right one. I know this." She's right.

Coming back to live in this city, in which I have already (technically) lived, means old expectations, thoughts, and patterns surface. In someways, I am living a dream I had years ago. Rather than living my life right now. My life has changed over the past few years. "Thankgoodness", is my first reaction to that thought. My life needed to change. I needed to change. Now, I need to live that change.

I realized this morning that I am on the verge of making a decision based on things I wanted in the past rather than things I want now. Based on things I needed in the past rather than the things I need now.

The house I saw last night is not as cute as the one on Sunday. The porch needs painting and the lawn is overgrown. "This is the cleanest it has ever been," he told me. The bedroom is red. I won't have my own bathroom.

But the bedroom window opens up to a second story porch and I wonder if lightening bugs live through September down here. I want to make them promise to pull me up on stage to do Karaoke on Saturday nights. I miss the sound of ESPN in the background and she knows Stephen King's On Writing. I confess that I still drink rum and coke and most of the time my dinners consist of frozen meals. I tell them more than I've told anyone about myself in months, maybe years. For so long, it hasn't mattered - the people who know me know me and I didn't need for that circle to get larger. He asked and I answered and they listened. She chimed in, "Yes, us too!" and I smiled and then laughed.

I don't know what decisions I will get to make in the next few days. I am waiting to hear who will let me into their homes and who will let me out. I do know that these days look nothing like I imagined them but if I have the opportunity to turn them into images identical to my dreams from a few years ago, I think I'll pass. At the end of the day, and in the early morning light, I like my life now enough to let go of the past.

"The people tonight were funny. And honest. And asked good questions. And laid back. And I wanted to put on a pair of sweats and watch tv with them and let them make fun of my silly questions."