I moved to the East Coast to be nearer my children. I moved back to Chicago to be closer to me.
If you took bets on how long I would last in PTOWN, and selected one month, you win! Mazel Tov!
But if you’re envisioning a contrite 85-year-old, and two offspring shedding tears, you’d be way off.
The three of us had a marvelous time engaging in heartfelt talks, admitting our foibles, and sharing hugs that will keep us entwined and besotted no matter where we live.
First, the positives of life in an LGBTGQ-friendly artists’ colony on Cape Cod: the sunrises are gorgeous! The population the friendliest I’ve ever encountered. And the beach kissing an ocean is a most marvelous romp for my dog Doris and her visiting canines, Sheldon and Moose.
The difficulties, which I won’t paint as negative because the effects are particular to me: my age, and my anxiety level. But if you don’t have my conditions, you would think you had died and gone to paradise. Especially if you are a member of the six initials noted above.
Where other towns and cities may turn their backs on those who do not fit the gender norm they worshipped since Sunday school, PTOWN adores and celebrates the lifestyle. Same sex couples walking together along the commercial strip of town don’t win a second glance. Nonbinary and Transgender folks stroll happily confident of their pride and safety. Perhaps me, with nary an elderly gal at my side, draws more queries and looks. But again, the folks here are so very nice!
One primary challenge is the need for a car to get around. I relinquished my drivers license some 14 years back and never regrated. That wise Elaine, not the blunder who stirred the pot until the stew boiled over, had wisely rented an apartment a few feet from public transportation.
While taxis and Uber are readily available in PTOWN, and Doris and I never had a problem calling for one, a $26 round-trip to a hardware store warned me of budgetary trouble ahead.
My second trial was facing PTOWN’s ferocious ocean waves. As if payment for the stunning sunrises, the ocean occasionally became jealous. angry. Facing the possibility of blackouts and slippery walks added to my accustomed anxiety.
Doris, my 6-year-old rescue, had mixed feelings about this new scene. She was in rapture on the beach outside our dwelling, where she chased and was chased by other PTOWN dogs. But walking along the narrow sidewalks, where one exposes fur and flesh to passing cars, was terrifying for both pet and person. When she balked, pressing her 35 pounds to the cobbled walk, and remained as immovable as a statue, I had to surrender and turn back.
Once I made the decision to return to Chicago, I have had to face guilt and embarrassment. My children have attempted to wipe away my remorse. They are as supportive as a boxing match’s corner man. “You did nothing wrong,” they insist. They hug me. Applaud my courage for attempting my moon shot. Promise to visit more in Chicago. Think I’m amazing.
Yet part of me believes they are stifling another reaction: relief. Joey had assigned two people to watch over me when she was out of town. Both have become dear friends who will remain so from afar. Faith watched my every step during their visit to PTOWN. “How I’ve lived this long without your surveillance is a miracle,” I would say, a bit cheeky.
To find refuge and familiarity, I am returning to the high-rise I left in Chicago’s River North neighborhood. Not the one-bedroom I departed as casually as a gourmand moving a plain bagel from her plate, but to a more affordable studio apartment.
Along with embarrassment, I must eat my words. And it is a meal packed with stomach-turning ingredients. To bolster my reason for my cross-country move, I disparaged my former neighborhood. Busy streets make crossing with tail-tucked dog a challenge, I tossed.
And I protested young neighbors who, upon entering the elevator, dodged a Good Morning and instead buried brows in palm-nested iPhones.
Further, to justify my relocation to a scenic village, I complained about daredevil pilots of electric scooters and bicycles. I will nosh on those complaints, too.
To balance my contrite and restore my once-healthy body, I’ll renew membership in my nearby health club. I prize its indoor swimming pool that enabled my thrice-weekly practice of the hard-won exercise learned at age 80.
And if you’re wondering what became of my deceased husband’s ashes, that I had contemplated scattering in the ocean, they’re back home with me. Untouched.