I whine a lot.
“I hate Orange County,” you’ll hear me snivel. “Why can’t we move now?” I’ll
whine in an annoying tone ask the Bean in an adult, mature fashion. “Other people seem to manage to survive in Montana, or Colorado. Why not us?”
“‘We’ll get there,” The Bean says in a distracted tone, having been through this particular
whinefest scintillating conversation a million times before.
I pout on my way to work, ignoring the beautiful drive down PCH as I feel sorry for myself.
Oppress’d so hard she could not stand, Let poor Becky go.
Go down, Becky, Way down in SoCal land,
Tell old Pharaoh, Let poor Becky go.
It’s no secret that I want to move.
There are too many people.
There’s too much concrete.
There are too many buildings. I hate the traffic. I hate the city life. I hate living ten feet from my neighbors. I’m scared my sons will grow up and start wearing skinny jeans like the other
idiots handsome young men of this city.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
Most days, I feel like I’m in the middle of a prison sentence, just doing my time until I can earn my way to freedom.
Every once in awhile, it’s not that bad.
When the weather’s just right,
and the tourists are all gathered somewhere else,
and you feel like you might have a moment’s solitude…
It’s actually quite beautiful.
And as I watch my son racing along the sand, I realize that when I do move……..
I think I might miss it, just a little.
Because on certain days, living in Huntington Beach is a pretty nice place to be.