The Forbidden Fruit of The Big Apple.

Do you remember the first time you settled somewhere and became rooted, even if it was inadvertently?

I do.  I’ve mentioned before how many places I’ve lived (20 different zip codes).  Without a doubt a gypsy was born when I turned eighteen.  A fly-by-her-seat gal that could easily fit everything owned into a coupe and jet off into the sunset on any given day.  It was a freedom unlike any other with just the open road, music, and me.  Pulling into unknown territory with a discovery high.  It never ceased to amaze me at how quickly I met people since I considered myself somewhat of an introvert, but in retrospect it could have been my romance with who I wanted to be.  Once the discovery was over, it was time to pull a Christopher Columbus (sans the raping and stealing from the Indians) and head into uncharted territory.   This was my life for six years, and then I took a bit of the forbidden fruit – the big apple.

I’ve got to be honest, when I first landed on the concrete paradise I didn’t think I would spend a year here much less 9 years.  Alas, here I am writing this post from postal code 10036 (Midtown).  I certainly never expected for my feet to dig into the ground, firmly planted, and grow roots.  So you trade in the concrete for a yard, which puts you in either Brooklyn, Long Island, or where I live, New Jersey. Had you told the gypsy she would be a homeowner in New Jersey, living with a woman, and chasing after three extremely spoiled animals, she would have told you to get off the acid.

I had always been the one leaving, departing for a new adventure.  I had a reputation to live up to  – my high school awarded me ‘Most Adventurous’.  Under the stability of today, friends all around me bid their goodbye and head into my previously chartered territory; a new life.  From where I stand, home, the fruit is bittersweet.

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