The Way Life Should Be

I have been a resident of New Bedford, Mass for almost three months now. Let's just say things have changed considerably since the days of Lobstahgal.

Remember that blog post entitled "Afloat" that I wrote last July mocking the life of cubicles? Well, I now have a "comfy little cubicle" of my own. A vida ironica. I suppose I was due for some humbling. And you know what? Working in a cubicle isn't half bad! It doesn't have a view of the open ocean (or any windows at all, in fact), but it is considerably more comfortable than the conditions I worked in a year ago. It's warm and dry. My hands don't go numb and my back doesn't feel like I'm 80 at the end of the day anymore. In fact, I've been quite grateful to be so comfortable this winter.

But it gets worse. Remember how I mocked Massachusetts residents and perhaps even called them a derogatory name related to their driving habits? Well, my car, Edwin, now wears Mass plates. Yes, that's right, I'm a Masshole. I don't drive like one, or not yet, anyway, but according to northern standards, I qualify. I had to register Edwin here in order to get a Mass car insurance policy. I mourned for a few weeks. Again, humbling.

It had been two and a half months since I had set foot in my home state when I pointed Edwin's bow north last week. I was headed home for spring break. Boy, was I ready to see some natural beauty again. The grey asphault and airborne trash were starting to get me down at the least colorful time of year. I gladly bid New Bedford farewell, as I passed the fishing port on I-195 on my way out. Boat masts, church steeples, and smokestacks pierced the sky. The skyline is just as rough as the city itself. Although I have a deep reverence and fascination for the waterfront of New Bedford, I can't say that I would be living here had a golden educational opportunity not arisen. In other words, it isn't a place where I would choose to live.

I let out a holler as I climbed the bridge into New Hampshire. It felt good to break free of "the mother state," as I now think of Mass. The air felt cleaner in NH, but upon crossing the next bridge into Maine, I felt even more refreshed. Maine welcomed me home, the sign reading "Welcome to Maine: The Way Life Should Be." How many times had I read that sign before? Yet it resonated more than ever this time. I couldn't help but start singing the Alan Jackson song "Where I Come From." Then I froze with horror. I'd be returning home, to New Harbor, Maine with Mass plates! The ultimate embarrassment. I'm not sure which is worse: locals not recognizing me. . . or them recognizing me as a Masshole!

Finally, I pulled into my parents' driveway. I stepped out of the car. I stopped. Silence. Stars! Solitude. Home.