Rabulous

Even though the tree outside of my building is still as green as it was in July, and even though I was too lazy to pull out my harvest-sized collection of pumpkins and other fall decor, and even though I’m sweating my ass off today in my Old Navy sweater, it’s already the third week of November– only a week away from the Thanksgiving holiday.

Our Thanksgiving trip home to Va is usually our longest and most anticipated visit of the year, but it’s certainly become the most stressful visit. This year, we’re going home for 6 fun-filled days.

When I was away at college, the anticipation of going home was always this exciting and valiant time for me. I was this unscrupulous English major, partying in DC and Baltimore and sleeping through my 8am classes. {I thought} I was big time.

Going home to the southeastern corner of suburbia and revisiting the facilitators of my teenage angst and all the sources of my youthful bliss was always a colorful time of year. I’d drive those 3-4 hours down 95 to 295 to 64, happily greeted by the Chesapeake Bay as a reminder that I was close to home.

Once I got to the other side of the peninsula, my car would instantly accelerate to speeding, but still in that ticket-safe range, all the way down 264. I’d race down the ramp, down Independence and the rest would be on autopilot through the neighborhood.

Thankfully, the neighborhood never changes.

As soon as I’d park my car in front of the house, I’d always take that last ceremonious drag on my cigarette, thinking heh– I was cool and all independent smoking in my dormroom and stuff. And then, I’d remember going home would mean that I was back to sitting on my ledge, in my pastel pink bedroom, puffing out my window as soon as everyone went to bed. Being home would bring trips to the mall with awkward sitings and the ubiquitous “so what are you doing now” conversations.

Strapped with my cheapy luggage and bags of laundry, I’d fling open the creaky door to my parents’ 1950s-styled Ranch.

I could smell it: I was home.

The essence of mom’s overzealous start on Turkey dinner, blended with grandma’s various pastries, created a flood of nostalgia every time. When I’d finally round the corner, without a word, only 5 extremely tight embraces, I’d know I was really home and remember how much I was loved.

It’s amazing- I worked so hard to escape my own angst in Va., but now, I’d do anything to go back. Truly, for me, there’s nothing like going home.

The anticipation of seeing my parents, in their happy not-yet judging state and hearing my grandma’s comforting welcome are still unmatched to this day. My NoVa college days may only be distant memories at this point, but I’ll never foget those vivid moments of coming home.
Fast forward 10 years, I’ve been gone even longer, live even further north, I now question if home will be the same. These days, being married and childless, our holidays are often overshadowed by anxiety, pressure and guilt.

That hysterical but innocent glance at my more-rotund-than-I-left belly from my kid brother; the disapproving smirk from my mother while I flatiron my hair before we hit the bars and the non-stop million dollar questions are just a few of the many things that are keeping me awake at night.

Instead of juggling bars and seeing high school friends, our holiday visits have become juggling acts between our two families. Even though we drive home from NJ to VA for most holidays, we still drive another 400 miles, jetting around to see all of our friends and family, dropping several hundred bucks in the process.

While there are real issues in the world, I’m truly blessed that my problems are so minimal that this nontrivial shit is all I have to whine about.

But I continue to whine anyway.

As much as I love going home to Va every year for every holiday and seeing each one of our family members, it’s disheartening to think that while we spend all of this time making sure everyone else is happy, we forget about us in the mix. We don’t have any of our own traditions yet, have never willingly spent a holiday at our own home, we sleep in my full-sized bed from childhood, sneak around when my parents go to bed, count the hours until we can do Jagerbombs at the bar with our friends and stress when we can’t see everyone for as long as we’d like.

I feel guilty for wanting to celebrate the holidays our way. And then I feel even more guilty for moving away.

The 350+ mile drive home is well worth my mom’s incredible home-cooked meals, the giant hugs from nieces and nephews, catching up with all of my inlaws, hitting our favorite bar where we were always greeted in a Norm from Cheers kind of way and listening to the not-funny jokes my dad likes to tell me over and over. It’s so worth it.

But, it’s still damn stressful. By day 3, my dad is knocking on my bedroom door at 7am reminding me that the oil needs to be changed. Mom is always eagle-eyeing me up and down, mentally telling me that beer doesn’t minimize my waist size. I’m not used to the driving thing. And the drinking and not being able to walk home thing, either. Five years removed, times have really changed.

Truth is, as much as I complain and moan about how begrudging and hostile our holiday trips can be, I really do love going home. We love home. Our family will always be there. Va. Beach is why we’ve become who we are.

But in the reality of things, NJ and NYC is now a big part of us and also our new home. And it’s so hard to verbalize that to my family. I’m sure it’s even harder for them to grasp. It’s hard leaving everything you know, leaving everyone you love behind.

We live in New Jersey now. And shockingly, we’re our own family, living in our little city, doing our fun and crazy things with a fun cast of friends. We miss Va– we always will. When I first left home with my overpacked black Jetta, I kissed my mom and little brother on the driveway. I wasn’t sad because I was leaving. I was determined to do my thing and eventually come home.

But this is where our roots are beginning to flourish. Our plans are always changing.

They say that many writers have lifelong conflicts about their hometown. I’m just now coming to terms with this.

But regardless of how long we’re gone or if we ever go back, I know for a fact that you can always go home. (just have a stiff drink before you do.) I’m definitely looking forward to our annual pilgrimage to the home state. But this time, I’ll be strapped with prettier, more traveled luggage and a lot more laundry.