I have a bad case of spring fever, and my benign liver tumor is groaning. Are you growing again, I want to ask. Do I need another MRI? Or did I pull a stomach muscle the last time I played tennis? My life is groaning. Where is Mr. Acceptable? Where is my charming roomy one-bedroom apartment with washer/dryer and modern equipped kitchen with DRAWERS? I am tired of living like a refugee! I am 50–closer to 51 than 50 now–and I want a bedroom. A modern bathroom. A thermostat to control the heat. I know that no matter where I move to, I will end up missing New York. And I will always visit NY because there are few, if any, places on earth like it. But I don’t want to live here anymore.
My spring fever (and my tumor) tell me to move, where I will be happy, with or without a boyfriend. I can’t wait for Mr. Acceptable or Mr. Wonderful to appear (I’m not waiting for him to knock on my door, I’m trolling online) and carry me off into the Pacific sunset. Wherever I move to, I will find someone, Mr. Boyfriend. I haven’t been successful here for almost two years. Isn’t that a sign, that I need to BE elsewhere. Wherever HE is, it isn’t here.
I know myself well enough to know what I need to be reasonably happy in my new small city: livelihood and regular income; team of doctors; writing and reading groups; cafes and used bookstores; exercise group; tennis club; alma mater get-togethers; spiritual community; classes; ethnic foods; friends, friends, friends. As long as I am in a good-sized university town, I should be able to feather my nest and be happy.
If I am not for me, who will be for me? If I am only for me, then what am I. If not now, then when.