Saturday, October 5, 2013

The Cure For Wanderlust

I can hardly believe I'm typing this, but it's true: I don't want to move out of my current house. Ever. I want to be carried out of my house by the mortician (a very, very long time from now).

I don't even recognize myself.

For years... forever... I have been mildly obsessed with the idea of moving. Looking at real estate listings wasn't just a hobby; I was always searching for my next home. I pondered job openings in far flung places and fantasized about new houses everywhere. Seriously. Kansas? I've looked at listings there. Capetown? Come on, give me something hard. I had a teensy tiny list of places I couldn't muster any interest in, and everywhere else was fair game.

Even when I moved here, I was a big fat liar. I told people that this was my last move, but what I really meant was that it was my last move for a while. I couldn't really picture myself living here for forty years. Or thirty. Or twenty. Ten was a stretch.

I've always been slightly fascinated with people who grew up in the area they currently live in. I couldn't relate. So... your parents live five miles away and you pass your high school on the way to work? And you're never tempted to pack it all in and move to Amsterdam? Or Pittsburgh? Interesting.

And then something happened. I can't even pinpoint when. I fell in love with Annapolis a long time ago, but at some point it morphed into a real, lasting connection. I'm an Annapolitan. I never want to leave.

For the first time in my life, almost everything I do is centered around where I live. I used to have far flung dentists and doctors, banks and bakeries. Now, my primary care physician? She's in Annapolis. My dentist? Annapolis. My bank? Three miles from my house. I have seriously considered changing pediatricians because he moved from Annapolis to a town seven miles outside of Annapolis.

I am obsessed with my town. It never gets old. I stand on Church Circle, at that sweet spot, looking down Main, and think it's the best view I've ever seen. I cruise past the beach on my bike, avoiding the sand that spills out onto the roadway. I can name the best five crab dips in town and know precisely where to get the most delicious Grey Goose Cosmo (don't hate me because I drink pink drinks).

I complain about mosquitoes (evil, maniacal, biblical plague in volume), but I stay. Some summer days here are so thick that you have to practically swim to the mailbox. The electrical grid is iffy - we refer to our neighborhood as "Little Afghanistan." I stay.

Sometimes I look at real estate listings, but lately I'm not tempted to buy. I'm just window shopping. Getting decorating ideas.

I am, finally, at the place I must have been searching for all this time.

I'm home.
An old pier at our neighborhood beach. Don't worry, we have a working one, too.


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