What Dreams May Come...

When I was young, I thought nothing would be more glamorous than living in a big city. People from big cities held a sort of celebrity-esque wonder for me. And they sat waaay up the coolness scale from us country folk. Not to mention all those huge buildings. A good skyline was like, the sexiest thing ever. And I used to fantasize about hailing cabs and stuff.

That being said, when I was twelve I decided I wasn't getting enough attention and thought it would be a good idea to tell all of my friends that our family was moving to, none other than, the Big Apple. This was especially preposterous because, I can assure you, in all of the history of Idaho Falls, Idaho, there has never been a family move to New York City. But, for some reason, this seemed like the ideal place for me and the ideal place for my family and so I went for it. Never mind the fact that saying you're moving actually entails leaving a place... pshhht, details.


It got so out of hand that my best friend, Sarah, and I had a full on bawl fest and "goodbye letter writing ceremony" where we pledged our undying loyalty and bestfriendness to each other. Looking back on it, I'm pretty sure I was some sort of sociopath.


As you can imagine, keeping up the charade sent my life spiraling into a vortex of quaking anxiety. But then, one of my ex-lovers, Scott, talked to my sister about it, and my little house of cards came tumbling down. She, of course, knew nothing about this cross country escapade. Naturally, he wrote me a disdainful note explaining that he thought I was rude for lying and, more pointedly, a huge weirdo.


I sortof avoided Scott after that. And since he was older than me, I felt great relief once he left to high school. And when he added me as a friend on facebook last year I thought for sure he was still thinking about it and I felt all awkward like, for some reason, I needed to bring it up to him. And I was certain he was telling all his family and friends about me. And I just knew he only added me so he could somehow tell Sam he'd made a big mistake marrying me cause I was a liar! See, kids?! See what lying'll do to you!??


Sorry.


Back to my story.

The best part of it all was that I never fessed up. I just sort of pretended it didn't happen. And when people would bring it up, I would just get all shifty-eyed and point and shout, "What's that!?" and then snake some of their french fries and bolt. Eventually people just stopped talking about it...


My infatuation with the big city lasted, albeit less intensely, until college. And then I got married and moved to San Francisco. And that's when I realized that the key component to being enamored with big city life is to, in fact, not live in one.


Suddenly my vision of being all hipster and staring pensively out the windows of quaint little bookstores was violently replaced by the reality of crap like homeless people gettin' all up in my grill and me trying to lug 50lbs of groceries onto stinky buses overflowing with crazies.


But that's neither here nor there. The point of this post is this:


I was a sad little weirdy as a kid.


J/K.


The real point of this post is that Heavenly Father has made me painfully aware that He's not super interested in answering my prayers when I want Him to, but He does always answer them. And He's got a sense of humor, too. Because ever since it became glaringly obvious to me that I am, indeed, not a city girl, I have lived in either San Francisco or Chicago.


And the real, real point of this post is to tell you that in June, we're moving to New York City.


For reals.