Am I home or am I away?

Interesting to not really know the answer to that question.

Currently, I’m spending two and a half weeks in my beloved Philadelphia while I’m being trained on how to do my new job in Baltimore.  I arrived here a few days ago and have a little over two weeks until I head back down south.  Even while interviewing for this job I knew that accepting it would mean a trip to Philly for training, and I considered it a delightful little collateral benefit. After all, if my attempts to find a permanent position and move back up here failed for now (in telling my cousin Brian my tale, and my resulting decision to continue to look in Philadelphia but expand my search to include Baltimore, he summed it nicely by commenting, “Wow. So Philadelphia pretty much gave you a big ‘Fuck You’, didn’t it?”), the least I could get was a trip up here for a few weeks, right? I mean, come on!

So far, my trip here has been awesome. I’m getting to see people left, right and center that I’ve worked with, played with, eaten with, and drank with over the years. The hotel they’ve put us in is right in the heart of center city, and every day I get to make the walk to and from (well, to be honest, just “from” as “to” has been a cab ride every morning) the corporate offices, past so many familiar sights I used to see every day: Suburban Station, City Hall, Market Street, 30^th Street Station, just to name a few.  Friday the Mad4Mex happy hour crew is reuniting, for stronger-than-we-realize margaritas, and this weekend I’ll start what could be my PADA swan song. I took the opportunity to sign up for Spring League Ultimate, since the season is so short, and I’m up here so much in the coming weeks anyway. I have planned out every single spare moment of time and am slotting in friends one by one to make sure I get to see as many people as possible.

Despite all the aforementioned awesomeness, a slight downside to the trip has emerged, though. I was mentally sinking in nicely to my new little life in Baltimore prior to my arrival, and I’m sure that will resume once I return. After all, the company I am keeping and the hijinks I am getting up to down there really are a lot of fun, and they have been a large part of my overall peace of mind regarding staying in Baltimore to begin with.  Plus, the job I’ll be doing is exciting, and quite frankly, I’m chomping at the bit to get out there and get going on it.  However, being here like this, completely immersed in my old life, has opened the floodgates of missing this town the way you miss an Ex for whom you still hold a torch. You think you’re over him, you think you’ve moved on, but a chance meeting on the street, and BAM! You’re right back to square one, feeling the way you did the day after he let you down gently.

Such is the case with myself and Philadelphia, it seems. And this 2.5 week trip is starting to feel an awful lot like break up sex.  Unbelievable while it’s happening and fraught with emotion, but in the cold, harsh light of day, everything goes back to the way it was. Except the dumper has the glow of having just gotten laid (plus maybe some minor, passing pangs of guilt), and the dumpee feels a whole lot worse for the wear. I mean, whoever heard of two people getting back together after break up sex?

I’ve written some pieces recently (not for public consumption, sorry) in which I’ve expressed envy towards those who bounce back from heartbreak at the blink of an eye, whereas I unfortunately belong in the camp of those who let go of our attachments one hair at a time. I’m finding not only is this true for me in my relationships with people but also in my relationships with geography. There is some part of me that fully expects that one day, this incredibly long trip will be over, I’ll land at Philadelphia International Airport, pull my Mariner into my driveway at my house in Ardmore, and perhaps spend the evening puttering in my flower garden whilest chatting with Babe and the Mary’s. But people move from city to city all the time, every single day in fact, at the drop of a hat. 

This is not difficult stuff. 

So why is it so hard for me?    

I know that Philadelphia is not in the cards for me at the moment and may never be again. And I’m at peace with that, as I am determined to not live a life in which I am swimming upstream for something that I’m not meant to have. (More on that confusing half thought another time. Maybe. If I get to it. Shut up, khop. Ok.) But I just came to that realization not too terribly long ago, so continuing with my earlier analogy, my break up with Philadelphia is still quite fresh. And now, right as I’m truly turning over a new leaf, moving on and feeling great about it, I’ve opened up my inbox to find that Philadelphia has shot me a breezy email, suggesting we “grab a drink to catch up, baby.” And not only am I’m too damn weak to say no to Philadelphia, but I shaved my legs before heading out to meet it. So in that regards, this trip is proving to be somewhat unhelpful to my psyche and causes me confusion when trying to answer my opening question, “Am I home or away?”

Kind of both, and kind of neither, I suppose. 

So here I am, 4 days into a 19 day post-breakup roll in the hay with one of my great loves, Philadelphia. Am I going to feel sadness when it’s over? For sure. Will I get over it? You betcha. So am I gonna enjoy it while it’s happening? Heck yeah.

Countin’ notches in the bed post,

khop

Ok, so I dropped my phone on my driveway yesterday afternoon, and awhile later I realized I had actually broken it.  In a really frustrating way, too.  The phone was still on and receiving calls; however, none of the buttons worked.  So I couldn't accept a call, dial a call, read a text, look up a phone number, nothing.  I could only watch in agony, as an incoming call would come in and go unanswered. 

"I wanna talk to you too!!!!!" I would cry out to my callers, hoping they would magically just know.

The best I could do was hurriedly scribble down said person's phone number while it was displayed as their call was coming in and then dial them back from another phone.  Which I did from the Smashbox Counter at KOP Mall yesterday, so that my shopping date with Mari would not be irrecoverably derailed.  Jordan, Smashbox Make Up Artist Extraordinaire, (the very one whose cologne sparked that whole debate a few month's back about whether Cologne Name is an indicator of the wearer's sexual orientation. Yes! Him!) got all into this with me as our genius selves outsmarted the broken technology. 

OMG, we almost passed out, we were so impressed with ourselves and our resourcefulness. 

Bear Grylls, you ain't got NUTTIN on us!   

Oh that's right, his stuff is all fake anyway. 

Well, this was real.  Hard core!

What made this worse is that I'm currently without my work computer, so my main email is cut off. 

No email, no cell phone, I started to petition God for mercy, as I was sure I was headed for Job-like trials.   

Well, I'm sure God has more on His To Do list than fix my phone, so in His infinite wisdom instead gave me some seriously ass-backwards logic:

"If I broke it by dropping it, perhaps I can fix it by dropping it some more."

I mean, what did I have to lose, right? The damn thing was already worthless to me.

So last night, I stood in my kitchen and dropped that sucker on my ceramic tile floor. Over and over and over again. I held it above my head and dropped it on its front, its side, I banged it on the counter, I became obsessed with seeing what would finally kill it. 

Then, all of the sudden, in a true embodiment of the mantra, "that which does not kill me makes me stronger," THE PHONE BEGAN TO WORK AGAIN!

OMG, it was the coolest thing ever.   

I still can't get over it.  

Just to be on the safe side, though, I am gonna go ahead and get me another phone. Afterall, the sucker has got to be on its last legs now, with the beating I gave it last night. 

Electronics beware, don't eff wit me,

khop