Raise your glass, it's another beginning!

Today, I have one key on my keychain. 3 weeks ago, I had a car key, a key to my office, a key to my apartment building, a key to my apartment, and a key to my storage unit. Now, I just have a key to my car. Somehow, I walked away from my life, from my grocery store and my neighborhood Starbucks, from the excitement of a big city, and from the friends that love me and in some way understand the place I spent four very formative years. I left the Protestant Vatican. And I returned to the nest of the liberal outdoor-loving hippies. And they don't even have Trader Joe's here.

And even though I always swore I would never be back here, here I am. Back in Boulder. And not only back in the city where I grew up, but back in my parents basement. After a 5 year jaunt to prove my independance in Chicago, here I am, with my parents cooking my dinner and drawing me maps to the Car Registration office. Suddenly, I'm 17, asking Dad if I can take his car to the mall and may I please borrow $3 for a cup of coffee. So, of course, I started a blog, which is just a fancy version of a diary. Dear Diary, Nobody understands me! The Evangelical that left home 5 years ago is very different than the Catholic that returned. No, I don't want to go to an all-college-student-Jesus-is-my-boyfriend Worship fest, thanks anyways. I'll be at Mass. But thanks for thinking of me?

And, worse of all, I've been home for a week, and I've already been propositioned with more hiking invitations than I even want to remember. I forgot about Boulder. I forgot how everyone wears hiking boots or Teva's everywhere, and how my little green Subaru, which is so unique in Illinois, is now getting lost in the parking lot among the rest of them. My time at home has been entirely reminiscent of Stuff White People Like. I pronounced "Tempeh" wrong at a vegetarian restaurant, I've been made to feel very bad about not embracing the outdoors by dragging myself up hills (I can see the mountains fine from here, thank you. Yes, they're beautiful). My sisters graduating class last week didn't have a single Lopez or Gonzalez graduating. I guess the ambiguously hispanic DesGeorges' are about as ethnic as you get around here.

But for all the reasons I always said I would never come back, I have hopeful moments. I've had homesick moments when I very much wish I was in Chicago. I miss my friends. But maybe Boulder's not really all that bad. Maybe I'm just a kid trying to prove that I've grown up, that I've outgrown this place that was my home for so long. Maybe I just want you to see that I am different, and would you please stop treating me the way you treated me when I was someone much younger? I'm 22 and 3/4, thank you very much.

I came back to make something new, for a new beginning in a familiar setting. But I'm having a hard time separating this new life I came back to create from the one I was living when I thought John Kerry was possibly the Antichrist. So if I don't seem interested in your Camelbak, or if I roll my eyes at the interpretive worship dance that really moved you, it's really only because I want you to recognize that I'm different than I used to be. And maybe you'll want to get to know the new me? (But I'm a little afraid you won't.)

On Tuesday, I spent $200 I shouldn't have on a fancy GPS navigation system for my car, that tells me exactly where I'm going and where to turn in a very nice, soothing voice. Even when I'm pretty sure where I'm going, it tells me exactly when to move to the exit ramp and when I've arrived at my destination. It's silly that I bought it now, really. Now that I've returned to the place where I know exactly every street and shortcut. I find myself using it even when I know exactly how to get where I'm going, and even following it's directions when I know it's taking me the long way home. It's very reassuring. It even sings a little tune when I complete a turn just they way I should. Doodle-doo! Well done, you've turned right! Yield to oncoming traffic! You've reached your destination!

My dad reminded me the other day when I was angry about getting two tickets in one day, only two things are certain, death and taxes. And change. (I added that last part so it would fit into my blog). Everything changes, even when we don't want it to. I'm trying to be grateful for the people and times in Chicago that have made me who I am, and I'm leaving myself open to the people in Colorado who will love me for who I am now, and for who I am becoming. It won't always be like this. It won't always be like this. It won't always be like this. I will make a life here. Barista's will recognize me, maybe. And someday, I'll jangle my keys again.