So in 34 years, I've lived at 21 different addresses. (And this is not counting different dorm rooms - the number of times I've had to pack up and move my stuff is much larger.) We were in Beverly eight years, which is officially the longest I've ever lived in one state. This summer will be a full decade in Massachusetts! And I have committed to roughly 15 years at the current location - barring unforeseen circumstances, we're here until Veronica graduates from high school. (Yes, that's only about 15 years from now.)
I really like New England. I like the fall, like the spring, like the summer. I like the history. I don't mind the winter TOO much, and I adore it at Christmas-time. I love Andover. And while I'm not in love with our house, I like it a lot and it is certainly a fabulous location for the kids to grow up in.
However. I can't control my innate sense of wanderlust. I drive around looking at all the beautiful old houses and feel the sting of house envy, the desire to know what it would be like to live there. I think about other areas of the country and fantasize about moving. Right now, the fantasy of choice is a nice farmhouse in rural Virginia. Next month, maybe it'll be a beach house. Who knows? Either way, the idea is the same - to see what life is like somewhere else.
What I find particularly odd about that is that right now I am completely happy with my life - I have pretty much everything I ever wanted, couldn't be happier with my husband and children, am working on the friends and personal advancement bits - as noted, I am comfortable in my own skin. In addition, I'm well aware that my life in rural Virginia, or the beach, or the big farmhouse down the road would be either much the same or possibly significantly less comfortable than it is now. I've been around enough to know that the greener grass might well be Astroturf ... but it continues to look good, and I continue to feel this low-lying longing for the lives I didn't choose. Probably, I always will.
I really like New England. I like the fall, like the spring, like the summer. I like the history. I don't mind the winter TOO much, and I adore it at Christmas-time. I love Andover. And while I'm not in love with our house, I like it a lot and it is certainly a fabulous location for the kids to grow up in.
However. I can't control my innate sense of wanderlust. I drive around looking at all the beautiful old houses and feel the sting of house envy, the desire to know what it would be like to live there. I think about other areas of the country and fantasize about moving. Right now, the fantasy of choice is a nice farmhouse in rural Virginia. Next month, maybe it'll be a beach house. Who knows? Either way, the idea is the same - to see what life is like somewhere else.
What I find particularly odd about that is that right now I am completely happy with my life - I have pretty much everything I ever wanted, couldn't be happier with my husband and children, am working on the friends and personal advancement bits - as noted, I am comfortable in my own skin. In addition, I'm well aware that my life in rural Virginia, or the beach, or the big farmhouse down the road would be either much the same or possibly significantly less comfortable than it is now. I've been around enough to know that the greener grass might well be Astroturf ... but it continues to look good, and I continue to feel this low-lying longing for the lives I didn't choose. Probably, I always will.
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