There is a first time for everything. Your first real date, even if it does come with several awkward silences and an odd angled hug goodbye. There's that first kiss, that counts even if it was in the woods behind your elementary school and it didn't involve tongue, but instead some profound hand holding for the rest of the day. The first time you drink with your best girlfriends or the first time you sneak out of your house in the middle of the night, because you're too young too realize, that you are too young to look for older guys downtown. I planned most of the firsts in my life with great detail and thought. And despite my leaving no room error, things still went wrong. But I always knew what was waiting, so I planned. EVERYTHING!!!
And then one day...I turned thirty and my carefully prepared life, filled with little to no dangerous misadventure, scared me. It's not odd for Greek men and women to live at home with their parents till they get married. Sure, in 2011, it's a little old-fashioned, but my parents are old school. And if I'm being honest, I liked telling myself that I was bound by cultural obligation, instead of calling it FEAR. One day, through the power of Facebook and newly formed friendships, I saw a room for rent in an apartment, Boston. Said room was larger than the bedroom I grew up in, but it doesn't take much to convince myself to steer clear of a good thing. Luckily, my friend Emmalou was with me and said in so few words that if I didn't take the room with the cheap rent, utilities included, and binocular viewing distance from public transportation, that I would be crazy.
So...I consulted my all knowing brother, who informed me of this, "If you have to ask if you should move to Boston and stop living at mom and dad's then you're a F*C*IN IDIOT!!" I promise, he loves me. He moved out in his twenties, and couldn't believe I'd waited so long. Still I debated and debated. I'd wanted to move to Boston for years, but I always felt like it was never a good time. This time didn't feel any better. My mother was in remission from Rectal Cancer, but she was constantly reminding me that she could be gone any minute, by saying things like, "I made you this scarf to remember me." So far, she's made me like eight scarf/hat sets. I only wear the one. My brother had just gone through an intense open surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from his left kidney. Fortunately, they saved half his kidney and he didn't need chemo. Score one for us, but he wouldn't be working for at least two months. Why do you ask, does that affect me?
We are your A-typical restaurant owning Greek family. Think, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, only my dad loves duct tape, not Windex. The wheels in my head were spinning and everything in my anxious/preparers mind was telling me, NO! Then, I remembered, that when I turned thirty, I decided to live for myself. To put my own dreams, priorities, aspirations, and all that cliched nonsense above any other. Thus, begins my journey....
*Footnote: I don't know the traditional rules of blogging, but I'm sure I wouldn't like them. It's not always going to be short and sweet, but my hope is that there will always be a sprinkle of funny. It may not always be about Boston or moving or anything specific. So...if you've tuned in for a weekly dose of my move, then change the channel. Of course, I'll write about moving for a while, but sometimes my blog might be, much ado about nothing. You'll take it in strides. Toodles for now.
Happy Reading!
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