Please pardon me while I get all pensive-y and reflective-y for a moment about the idea of ‘Home.’ I keep thinking about this lil article in AM New York a few weeks back, about New Yorkers who stay in the city for the summer, having little staycations within its walls – finding no reason to leave. Article also said that a lot of people end up living here because they don’t quite feel like they belong where they’re from. Which I keep coming back to in my mindplace – I think this is pretty true. It’s kind of a city for the displaced.

This sounds angsty and negative but it’s definitely not. I look at it this way: I have two homes. Like how I was oddly  jealous of Karen in the Babysitter’s Club who had divorced parents: hence: two awesome bedrooms filled with 2 of awesome everything. I see it as kind of a blessing. North Carolina: home, sort of. Here: Home, sort of. I have love of and loyalty for both – but I don’t fully embrace either as ‘home.’ I split myself between the two I guess. Mayhaps this will lead to some unrequited need panic attack in my mid-40s or something and some poor shrink will peel me off of her carpet: ‘You don’t have a true home, Bekah! YOU. DON’T. HAVE. A TRUE. HOME.’ But for the most part, I’m pretty into it, and feel like I have the best of both worlds. I get to idealize both places, and long for both. I get trees and quiet and goodwills and little Richards BBQ and lakes and long walks at dusk;  I get noise and bikes and crazy people and plays and the irresistable insanity of Here. I get both! 

In related news, did I mention there’s an aquatic center named after my Dad? Because there is.

When I’m Home, I like to go there, and pretend like I’m a Kennedy.

It never works.