There isn’t anything particularly poignant about the moment.
We’ve just taken a circuitous route back from the only Starbucks within the vicinity of my parents’ hobbit-esque home in the middle of the Alabama woods.
(Meaning, we’ve just driven 30 minutes in the opposite direction of California. Never underestimate the power of The Starbucks on two deprived gays.)
The sky is overcast and the wind jostles the loaded-down car a bit, causing momentary white-knuckling. It’s been an unseasonably cold past few days in Alabama; but, hey, there’s no such thing as global warming or climate change, right?
Right. (Insert eye-roll here.)
But in this moment, I realize something.
We are actually doing this.
I turn and squeeze Andy’s leg.
“We’re moving to California.”
He turns and smiles.
Not to beat a dead horse into an Alpo can, but the past few weeks have been nuts.
Just to recap:
There’s what I’ve come to call the Ten Minute Moment: ten minutes during which Andy resigns from his job, then gets the offer from his CA job.
Followed by a series of Academy Award-worthy ugly cries. (Mine.)
Then, a few days later, a completely unexpected relocation offer from said CA job.
Followed by more joyous, ugly cries. (Me again.) And the transport of Andy’s Prius onto a car carrier.
All of which inform the direction of a professional move, during which I answer the movers’ questions whilst they indirectly box me into the back room Cask of Amontillado-style. (I become ravenously hungry, and slightly claustrophobic.)
And three days of sleeping on hardwood floors, with only three extra duvets as bedding. (Yes, we’re so gay that we had three extra duvets laying around.)
So, before we know it, we’re cramming the last of our things into our remaining hatchback, including five incredibly fragile Art Deco mirrors that we should’ve let the professional movers crate.
And piercing the 6 AM Saturday morning silence with our car horn, bidding adieu to the wankers next door–who’d celebrated the end of finals all night long.
A visit to Alabama comes and goes, and I’m reminded of how lucky I am not to have a normal family.
(Because I think it’s completely normal to leave the dinner table right after a conversation about finding a rare Mexican scorpion in bed with you, only to sit back down to a conversation that ends with, “So I’m still trying to figure out what marketing has to do with falconry.”)
More importantly, though, I’m reminded that we’re doing this.
We’re making this happen.
We’re not on another road trip.
We’re not going to have to worry about traffic on the way back.
Because our path is going to end just before the Pacific.
And the road we’re taking to it is wide open.
And the grass on either side is slightly greener.
Bursting with color.