Location, Location, Location

You never know how much you want something untill your inner three-year-old drops into a boneless tantrum when you can't have it. Yesterday my inner three year old found out that it’s been given a Detroit time out.

“WAAAAAAHHH!”

Funny, little Robby never thought that Detroit was a problem before.  Is there a problem? Apparently so, the news totally trashed my Tuesday.

I didn't even see a problem when we made the list.  MyQueen loves lists. Trust me, she has lists of her favorite lists and lists on how to organize them. Me, I stick to the indices and appendi—appendages? No, that’s not it either. Appendixes? Really? That’s just stupid. Anyway, I love those too. My list said I didn’t love Detroit.

It was a list of reasons to stay and go.  My gos far outweighed my stays.

“Cuz MyQueen’s here.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.  Why else?”

“Uh…no. That’s it.”

But that wasn’t even when I realized I didn’t belong here. When we moved here, I told MyQueen, “Location doesn’t matter.”  It didn’t. At least I thought it didn’t until we missed an opportunity to move away from here. My heart fell hard like a crush gone wrong.

Suddenly it mattered.  Suddenly I was the prom queen realizing her prom date was the ugliest guy in school.  Yeah, Tammy, sorry.  Now I know how it feels. Suddenly this sucks.

So what went wrong? What made Detroit my ugly prom date?  Part of it is the Detroit attitude. When I first met her, I wanted to believe in her. She’d had some tough times and I was a white knight kinda guy. I believed I could fix her. Corrupt politician, entitled residents who believed the American dream was meant to be served on a golden platter with all the steamy fixin’s while they lounged on the sofa watching the Lions lose. These were all in the past. Detroit was ready to be saved.

And yet some girls don’t want to be saved. Ask Lindsay. Neither does Detroit. She’s happy in her misery.  She attends meetings crying, “yes! I deserve better,” but then she goes home to repeat the cycle. Now I’m dizzy.  I might overlook that, but she can’t cook and she doesn’t like to go out.  She just sits and drinks and feels sorry for herself.

Well I’ve got news for you Detroit, that’s my job.  Your job is to make me feel good.

But really that’s it, isn’t it? Detroit, it’s not you; it’s me. I’ve changed.

“Location doesn’t matter.”

That’s what I told MyQueen.  I believed it when I said it. That had always been the truth before. D.C., Milwaukee, Palm Desert, Burbank, Riverside, Garden Grove, Sunland, Prescott, Yuma, these places all meant the same thing: one night stands, a means to an end. Sure some places were more fun than others, but what mattered was the conquest and not the faceless place itself.

Just another notch on my Google-map post.

I was younger then. What I failed to realize now is that my last notch changed me. We were friends with benefits, safe, for almost twenty years, hanging out until the next thing I know, I’ve stayed longer than I’ve ever stayed with any one place. Before I met SoCal, location meant nothing. Now it’s gone, and I don’t really want it back, but I know that I want something more. I want a locationship.

I want a place I can grow old with. I want a place to settle with MyQueen and raise a family. I don’t want somebody else’s white picket village, I want what’s mine. I don’t know specifically what that is, but I have a list, and I know that my locationship is out there, somewhere. I’ll find it.

Until then, I’m not worried. MyQueen and I can hang out here. As for my inner three-year-old and I, we’re good. I’m a dreamer and a writer, for now we’ll focus our talents on finger paints and writing. And someday, when the right locationship lights up the room, I’ll know.

For now, I only know that it’s not Detroit. 

Now I gotta figure out how to let her down easy. She’s already been through so much already…