I did it, HTLYT. I got a job. I left Alabama. I dragged my family with me after two weeks of loneliness. I found a house. I found a daycare. I am woman. I am success.
And now I’m regretting it.
Alright, so ‘regret’ is melodramatic. I don’t actually regret any part of it, except maybe the second AirBnB I stayed in where the woman had 5 dogs, or how gleefully I skipped exercising in favor of rewatching season 1 of Game of Thrones for ten days straight. (I just like it when Robb is alive.)
But it has been hard. Like, really, really hard. I moved to New Hampshire and everything is weird up here. They hate convenience, apparently, so all of the houses are free of pretentious modern inventions like microwaves and dishwashers. “The founding fathers never used microwaves or dishwashers! Where has the value of hard work gone? What’s wrong with a little elbow grease?” This is presumably what the anti-appliancers cry, all while ignoring the fact that Washington and his cohorts had legions of slaves to do their washing, whereas I only have one ginger two-year-old who won’t stop putting the scrubbing brush in her mouth. She is useless.
Another fun thing about our house is that it is literally filled with spiders. I don’t use the word literally lightly, and I want to impress that upon you now when I rewrite that sentence: It is literally filled with spiders. They are in every corner, lurking, sneering, taunting. They crouch in all of the closets, squat atop the mantles, and creep across the walls while daring you to kill them. They’re reckless with their dumb spider lives because, just like the Hydra of Greek mythology, if you smash one spider, fourteen more appear in its place. I wish I was exaggerating on that last point, but I’m not, because all of these goddamn spiders are laying eggs. I have seen a total of six eggs hatch now, covering the walls in a cloud of spider babies. Welcome to New England.
(Our house is also filled with ghosts since it is a 17th century farmhouse, but they are less infuriating than the spiders.)
But it isn’t only the house that’s making adjusting difficult, it’s also the fact that my entire routine has been reworked. I’m a real adult now with a 9-5, dropping my kid off at daycare in the morning and dragging her home at night. I wear pencil skirts and shiny patent leather heels, and people send me e-mails labeled ‘IMPORTANT’ and ‘NEEDED BY EOD’ and sometimes even ‘PLEASE DRIVE SLOWER IN THE PARKING LOT’. I even brought a salad to lunch once in an effort to be like the powerful business ladies I see in commercials, but it was gross and a mistake and I haven’t done it since.
So it’s been a huge upheaval and the reason for my latest silence, but I think we’ll be happy here. There’s tons of stuff to do in Boston, people have hilarious accents, and my job is amazing. Right now, though, I admit it: I miss Alabama. Three words I didn’t think I’d ever say, at least not for a long, long while, and even then only in a sort of uppity, condescending way as I sipped a fancy drink named after a dead white guy and adjusted my expensive necklace. But there’s still time.