I went to sit on my front porch today, on an 80+ degree day in April, and I looked up. I haven't looked up since I moved. And I realized I have not one but two palm trees in my front yard. I think that still counts.
There were a number of things I was supposed to do when I moved to California. I was supposed to start eating healthy and working out more. I was supposed to join a softball team. I was supposed to go to as many shows as I could. I was supposed to make new friends, seeing as I left most of my old ones back on the East Coast. I was probably supposed to learn to make chicken without the use of a George Foreman grill.
But today, when I was done writing and needed a break from my brain, I drove to Yogurtland. I have become obsessed with yogurt since I moved out here because they're on every corner, worse than a Starbucks in Seattle or a Dunkin' Donuts in Boston. Not only that, they're self-serve and come complete with cookie toppings. It's like heaven by the ounce. I didn't even go there on purpose. I just got in my car and when I saw it, I stopped. It seemed like a good idea. I hadn't eaten dinner yet.
On the way out of the store, I looked up. There was a line of palm trees along the boulevard, right in front of a boarded-up grocery store. The sun was setting, a hazy shade of pink that probably wanted to be orange but couldn't because there is so much smog in this city, so it decided to look purpleish instead. And I stopped. And I thought, I can't believe this is my life.
There are palm trees everywhere. It feels like a vacation but no one's making me go back to reality yet. All the people who grew up here probably think I'm crazy. They'd probably remind me that I was two steps away from a ghetto or that plenty of states have palm trees or, hey, I'm not on vacation. I, in fact, have a job and bills to pay.
But to them I'd say: I have a palm tree. In my front yard. Two, in fact. And I can't believe this is my life.
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