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Classier times

I spent some time on the street I grew up on today. The fam gathered with a few of our close friends/former neighbors. The people I grew up around and with are like family now and it's great to all get together again. I think if you're lucky enough to be close with neighbors at some point in your life, you're bound to experience a different kind of closeness because...well, they are the people that were always around. Needless to say, it was great to see my peeps and reconnect.

However, it was not so great to see my old house. It looks hideous. I'm not kidding. I'm not exaggerating. I'm not doing that bitter "Well, it looked better because of us" thing. I'm being honest here, people. What once was a lovely, all-American bungalow is now starting to resemble a house from the set of a Nick Jr. show, complete with bright and mis-matched colors with a lop-sided bench on the [small] front lawn.

Every time I see it I start writing an anonymous letter to the new owner in my head. Sometimes it's short and sweet- "Common sense: the green roof doesn't match the bright blue and yellow house". Sometimes I go on and on about how I am a long time resident of this neighborhood and am appalled at how this once charming home has be come so tacky. I want this fool to know that the mental picture I have of my home-sweet-childhood-home in my head will NOT be tainted!

But...

It's not my say.

It's not my house.

It's not even my neighborhood anymore.

So, I opt out of the useless, spiteful, mean (and true) letter.


I blog instead.


There is an obvious moral here. I can hear the narrative of the HBO series of my life that plays in my head as I stand in the middle of the street I used to pedal down as a child:

"...And then she realized- she had moved away...and on. The obnoxious colors of her once safe haven were an unapologetic reminder of the constant and inevitable change in her life..."

(The camera pulls away as I endearingly shrug and walk to my car)