That Time I Cried In the Monogram Store
Most days I'm so excited about moving. And then some days I cry in the Monogram store. Like ugly cry in the Alabama shaped tumbler section. I'm putting together some things to make our move easier for the special people we are leaving behind (I'll post them after they get them so I don't ruin the surprise) and I found myself in Mintjulep Monograms (a fabulous store by Rosie's on South Parkway. If you haven't been, stop reading and go now).
I found myself in the back of the store surrounded by Sweet Home Alabama pallets, monogrammed raincoats, personalized license plates, houndstooth wreaths, and tumblers with a vinyl Alabama on them. And I realized that for the first time in my life I wouldn't live in Alabama anymore. That the people around me won't care about football or white BBQ sauce. That they don't appreciate invasive small talk or know your momma from school. They might not even monogram things. LIKE AT ALL. And I started to cry, right there beside the sweet tea candle topped with a cotton boll. The South is both so much a part of who I am and so much of what drives me to expand my horizons. It's lovely, slow, gracious, innovative, traditional, and welcoming. It's also stubborn, oppressively religious, judgmental, homogeneous, and resistant to change. But I love it. And my people are here. My parents live 10 minutes from my house and are part of our daily lives. We show up unannounced and are always (well, almost always) welcome. My sister is a short day trip away. I have friends that I love like family and I can see whenever I want to. I love the people I work with and the easy, established flow we have when we are together.
I cried right there in that store because I will be an outsider when I come home. Things will carry on here without me and there will be jokes that I miss, babies born without me, long walks and talks that happen in my absence. I cried for the friendships with smart, sassy, strong women here. I know that they are a rare breed and don't take for granted that I will be able to find them again somewhere else. I have a tribe here. I cried for the loss of that lovely feeling of being proficient. Proficient in your language, your way around town, your job. It's tough to be the new guy again, especially when you are going to be out of place in ALL the places. It's not just a new job, but a new house, a new town, new customs, new language. All of it far from my people. But not from all my people. My sweet boys will be with me, all 5 (when you count the dog) of them, where I'm never the new guy. Where I'm never out of place. Where they are my home no matter where my house is. I'm hoping that this experience will cement our little family as a unit and hopefully let me find a broader definition of who I am. But I will miss Alabama and her lovely people furiously and I know there will be many more nights that I cry for them. So I'll take my Alabama tumbler with locally brewed coffee and put on my monogrammed sweatshirt and show Europe my Southern Charm. Who knows, maybe I'll start a houndstooth trend.
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| www.mintjulepmonograms.com |
I found myself in the back of the store surrounded by Sweet Home Alabama pallets, monogrammed raincoats, personalized license plates, houndstooth wreaths, and tumblers with a vinyl Alabama on them. And I realized that for the first time in my life I wouldn't live in Alabama anymore. That the people around me won't care about football or white BBQ sauce. That they don't appreciate invasive small talk or know your momma from school. They might not even monogram things. LIKE AT ALL. And I started to cry, right there beside the sweet tea candle topped with a cotton boll. The South is both so much a part of who I am and so much of what drives me to expand my horizons. It's lovely, slow, gracious, innovative, traditional, and welcoming. It's also stubborn, oppressively religious, judgmental, homogeneous, and resistant to change. But I love it. And my people are here. My parents live 10 minutes from my house and are part of our daily lives. We show up unannounced and are always (well, almost always) welcome. My sister is a short day trip away. I have friends that I love like family and I can see whenever I want to. I love the people I work with and the easy, established flow we have when we are together.
I cried right there in that store because I will be an outsider when I come home. Things will carry on here without me and there will be jokes that I miss, babies born without me, long walks and talks that happen in my absence. I cried for the friendships with smart, sassy, strong women here. I know that they are a rare breed and don't take for granted that I will be able to find them again somewhere else. I have a tribe here. I cried for the loss of that lovely feeling of being proficient. Proficient in your language, your way around town, your job. It's tough to be the new guy again, especially when you are going to be out of place in ALL the places. It's not just a new job, but a new house, a new town, new customs, new language. All of it far from my people. But not from all my people. My sweet boys will be with me, all 5 (when you count the dog) of them, where I'm never the new guy. Where I'm never out of place. Where they are my home no matter where my house is. I'm hoping that this experience will cement our little family as a unit and hopefully let me find a broader definition of who I am. But I will miss Alabama and her lovely people furiously and I know there will be many more nights that I cry for them. So I'll take my Alabama tumbler with locally brewed coffee and put on my monogrammed sweatshirt and show Europe my Southern Charm. Who knows, maybe I'll start a houndstooth trend.
There will be tears shed for you too dear friend. But the love will not end. Friends and family will still call and write and maybe even visit! We will be sad to not have you in arm's reach, but we will share in your joy as you take on this adventure. In this age of technology, the other side of the globe is closer than ever before. And we will still be here when you return to embrace you and listen excited to all your stories!
ReplyDeleteLove you to the moon and back!
DeleteYeah .. what she said!
ReplyDeleteWith as much as you travel, I'm hoping to see you and Kim!
DeleteThere is so much wonderful that is ahead for all of you, it's overwhelming to take in. You have not been able to fully expand your wings and take flight, despite their aching. And you have made this happen: you've worked for it and you are sacrificing for it and it will be a season of your life that changes all of you forever (in such a beautiful way).
ReplyDeleteYou're right. You won't ever get to go home again in that way. The tides keep coming in and out and you become a watcher rather than a participant. At least of the hometown lives. But it's okay. Because you've become part of other tidal pools and you don't stop participating; you just participate in other lives and events. Not "new" friends, but more friends. Germany friends. You'll have AL friends, college friends, used to be friends, don't want to be friends, Germany friends. FRIENDS.
Being the "new guy" means feeling so humbled when you are taken in and accepted for who you are. It means getting to shed the "I remember when you (insert any number of things any of us do)". It means that the invitations to newly made friends' children's birthdays or recitals are surprising and sweet and inclusive. And it means that meeting others who have taken the same leap will connect with you without having to know where your mama when to school. But it's a small world (after all) and you will find Alabama people in Germany. And you will say Roll Tide and even War Eagle just to hear them say it. And YOU will care where THEIR mama went to school because you just care, and it's the Southern thing to do, to care about people and make them feel at home.
And you're right. It means you and your crew of 5 will become everything to each other. And you'll be in awe at your husband's compassion and dedication. And he will be moved by your strength and perseverance. Things you already love about each other but that get lost in the Target runs and the rinse & repeat cycle lives can be on. It's like getting to strip off the outside and get back to the core.
And your kids, they will be grateful beyond measure when they look back and know that you prioritized them over your (you and your husband's) own comfort zone, your own jobs, your own need to belong, your own, insecurities from growing up and begin in the world. They will know they are loved. And seeing the Eiffel Tower ain't bad, either.
Go put some stamps in your passport!