moving to Santa Cruz, even though I first arrived in November of 2012. Only now are all the contents of my box shipment from Brooklyn finally put away, no more belongings left behind in the city I called home for eleven years leading up to this unexpected move. I’ll always go back, always consider it one of my homes, even if I’m not as bicoastal as I initially thought I would be.
It’s a fitting postscript/new ending to one of the essays in Seeing As Your Shoes Are Soon To Be On Fire, “33”. I wrote “33” about the everything-backwards nature of the beginnings of my relationship and marriage with J. He and I met at a time when I set so many rules and boundaries for myself — experimenting with having more self-imposed rules, as I was usually the throw-self-in-headlong type. Among these rules were no sex prior to commitment (so as not to confuse the passion-feels for deeper connection), definitely no sex on the first date, friendship first, etc. And my mother, The Profiler, had to approve. Then I got to know J. and the rules simultaneously were abided by and completely thrown out the window. Our earliest courtship took place entirely over Skype. We committed pretty shortly after re-meeting in person a month later on our first official (long distance) date, which was an uninterrupted four days long. I went to Santa Cruz on a whim that morphed into a move after he broke a rule of his own about not proposing prior to minimum six months of dating as “that would be the shortest amount of time not considered insane.”
Six weeks after the six-month promise, we got engaged. Month 5: bought a house, month 8: went on a honeymoon, came back, got married. So it seems fitting that, after our baby’s second birthday and our fourth anniversary around the corner, this week I finally finished moving in.