My mother has been telling me stories my whole life about her unconventional upbringing. Before second grade, my mom had been to seven different schools. She switched high schools four times, so when you ask her where she grew up, you can expect a pretty complicated answer. I am the exact opposite. I have only ever lived in New York City. The closest thing I have to uprooting my life and moving is switching apartments- from sixteenth street and fifth avenue to twentieth and ninth. I have only ever experienced the bleak winters and sticky summers Manhattan has to offer, but I long for something different.
I miss California. I've never been- but I would give anything to live there. I long for the warm embrace of the sun in the middle of November. I want to live a life where fifty degrees is cold. I want to live in California- a place without a temperate climate. Leaves on trees should not excite me. Birds chirping on a Sunday morning should not bring me bliss. I should not get giddy with joy the day when the sun finally sets at six. And yet I do. I detest the cold, the dryness of my lips, and the sight of my exhalation in the cold, grey, sky.
I get that the grass is always greener on the other side. That somewhere, there's a girl in southern California daydreaming of the life she could live if she could just move to New York City. And yet, I can't stop my fervent longing for an alternate universe where all I knew was shorts, sunblock, and sand. You can bet, the second I can leave my stuffy shoebox apartment and venture into the unexplored world around me, I'm heading straight to California, where the sun always shines.