It's time to move on

I love Washington, DC. I love its wonkiness, its history and the fact that, for two weeks every spring, it's completely covered in cherry blossoms. I love that everyone here is concerned about the state of the world, and that you're more likely to hear people talking politics than sports on the Metro. I love that that's true even when the people in question are wearing Caps jerseys or D.C. United scarves and are heading to or coming from a game. I love that it's a completely different city in the summer than it is the rest of the year, and that significant amounts of snow are rare enough that the entire population turns into a bunch of five-year-olds and runs out to make snow angels and throw snowballs when there are more than a couple of inches on the ground.

I love this city, but it's time for me to leave.

I initially sat down to write this post in March, when some (probably Metro-related) city hiccup had me frustrated. At that point, the above sentence read "I love this city. But if I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to lose my mind." For months, I had been becoming increasingly annoyed by Washington's inefficiencies, its tunnel vision, its suit-and-tie culture. I took it as a personal affront every time someone stepped into my path, sped around a corner as I was stepping into a crosswalk or sauntered rather than speed-walked down an escalator in front of me. Instead of my usual smile at obvious first-time visitors (well, the non-obnoxious ones), I gritted my teeth and walked past as quickly as I could. I was frustrated, edgy and suddenly obsessive about my personal space.

It's true that the Metro has been hitting more rough spots in service more frequently throughout the past year, which leads to jammed platforms, trains that bear more of a resemblance than usual to sardine cans and irritable commuters. And tourist season started in March, which always adds to city inefficiency.

It's also true that, after almost seven years inside the Beltway, the fact that I am definitely not your typical Washington personality is probably catching up with me. If I'm meeting new people, I want what's happening on the Hill or in the Supreme Court to be part of the conversation, but I also want to talk about what the EU is up to, what's going on in the Sudan, favorite hiking trails, great trips taken or planned and future goals that have nothing to do with running for office. I haven't worn a suit since my first interview for my current job almost three years ago, and that's perfectly fine with me. I sometimes dread the very thought of networking (which, in Washington, is akin to blasphemy).

My revelation that maybe I was just tired of Washington and ready to be somewhere else didn't surprise my friends at all, which came as a surprise to me. "You're a total granola type," they told me, "of course you were going to get sick of politico-mania at some point!" Me, granola? Since when? True, I like to buy local, don't own a car, am into outdoorsy stuff and non-profit work and think Seattle is one of the best cities on earth, but the "buy organic" movement generally annoys me and I haven't worn a peasant blouse since my freshman year of college. And the car thing is largely because, 90% of the time, it's more convenient in Washington to not own one.

I'm still not entirely convinced that "granola" is an accurate descriptor of my personality, but the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that inside the Beltway was no longer the best place for me to be. I'd hoped for some time that I'd be leaving in 2010 or early 2011 to pursue a graduate degree, but last fall even that began to seem too far away.

Fortunately, a solution presented itself, as they usually seem to do, which is why I'm now writing this blog from the Middle of Nowhere, AZ. The lease on my Arlington apartment came up for renewal this month and when I asked this winter about the possibility of renting month-to-month or signing a lease of less than a year, I was told both were impossible. The idea of finding a short-term lease and moving in May, then wrangling all of my stuff into storage at my parents' house in December or January before transplanting to Australia for two years was less than appealing. I talked to my parents and my boss and decided that moving to my parents' house in May and teleworking for the rest of the year was doable.

So here I am in my new home office in the Arizona mountains, with Nala curled up at my feet. I saw a herd of deer, a couple of jackrabbits and a few very arrogant-looking ravens on this morning's run and am listening to the wind whip through the pine trees outside as I take my lunch break (which is actually almost the end of my workday, since I'm keeping East Coast office hours). My mom worries that I'll go crazy inside of a month with no friends my age in the area and the nearest movie theater and grocery store 30 miles away, but I'm thrilled to have what feels a lot like time out of time to spend with my parents, focus on the aspects of my work that I love, read, write and relax before heading off on a new adventure.

I spent my last month in Washington doing typically Washington things: having brunch or dinner with friends, going to happy hour, browsing Eastern Market, attending performances at the Kennedy Center and the Washington National Opera, visiting quirky landmarks like the Mansion on O Street, wandering Dupont Circle, the monuments and the Mall. I didn't sleep much, and set my usual monthly budget aside so I could make the most of my last weeks in the city that had become my home.

As I spent my evenings packing boxes and my days rediscovering my favorite spots in the city, something began to change. I was smiling at tourists again, stopping to offer assistance if someone looked especially lost. When my morning train stopped in a tunnel for the third time, I shrugged and turned another page of my book. Rather than rush in and out, I spent ten minutes talking to the man working in The Guitar Shop when I took my guitar in to be re-strung, and he made my day when he called the same afternoon to say it was ready just because "Well, I liked you."

I arrived in Arizona last Thursday, exhausted but happy. And, unexpectedly, knowing that I'm going to miss Washington like crazy this summer: jazz in the Sculpture Garden, lazy evenings on sunny patios, even the swampy mugginess of my morning runs. Watching the Capitol Building drift by for the last time from a Super Shuttle window was bittersweet, which turned out to be better than being thrilled to leave it behind. It was absolutely time for me to leave Washington, but in preparing to leave I was able remember why I fell in love with it in the first place.

The Changing of the Guard

The idea of replacing their parents in the workforce, of a societal "changing of the guard," isn't one that generally occurs to children. They play, learn and dream of being astronauts, dancers, rock stars, doctors and marine biologists, thinking of Mom and Dad as one of their most rock-steady constants, perhaps hearing them sigh over getting older but not fully understanding the eventual switch that will take place: one day, they'll wake up and be the ones rushing around, throwing lunch(es) together, coordinating gym shoes and work clothes and scheduling meetings, while their parents will have the luxury of deciding what they want to do that day, where they want to play and with whom.

One of the oddest sensations of becoming an independent adult has been watching that switch take place and strangest of all, being aware of it. My dad's taken up new hobbies to fill his time in retirement as I've given up old ones, sacrifices to the 40-hour work week and its commute in exchange for a salary, benefits and financial self-sufficiency. My mom used to marvel at the number of books I read in the time it took her to get through one, as she struggled to read a few pages in bed at night before succumbing to the exhaustion of working a stressful full-time job, running herd on me and managing a household. Now when she tells me what she's reading, I rarely have anything to add to the conversation - I'm still only halfway through the same books I was the last time we talked about reading.

The thing that initially made me aware of these changes, ridiculous as it sounds, was my caffeine intake. My mom's not much of a coffee person, but she had a Diet Coke at her elbow most hours of the day when I was growing up, and stopped worrying about buying it "Caffeine Free" once I was in my teens and drinking caffeinated beverages with my friends anyway. I scolded her about not drinking enough milk, which I downed by the gallon, and ingesting too much caffeine, as well as carbonation that would make her more susceptible to the osteoporosis that whittled my grandmother down from 5'1" to somewhere around 4'6".

With the exception of my hellishly over-scheduled sophomore year in college and the summer of sleepy caffeine-withdrawal headaches that followed it, I've never found caffeine to be a necessary part of my day. I'm still not physically addicted to it (anymore), but there are days I find myself detouring to Au Bon Pain on my way in to the office, needing a cup of coffee to wake me up, or dashing out for an over-sized bottle of Diet Coke at lunch to extend my morning workout energy kick into the afternoon. There have even been a couple of days when, succumbing to the demands of a muddled brain and a need to be fully functioning, I've done both.

My mom, on the other hand, has stopped buying Diet Coke for herself altogether and drinks milk with her lunch everyday. (My dad, however, is a four-shots-a-day guy (espresso), and guzzles Diet Coke the way I do water - and he's not about to volunteer to break the habit!)

It's this kind of daily minutiae that occasionally make me blink in surprise and realize that I'm now the one wrapped up in the world of work - the ups, the downs, the stress - even though somewhere in my head, "the working world" still means my parents, not me, a distinction reinforced by memories of work-related dinner conversation going back as far as I can remember.

I don't usually think about being an adult, because without a mortgage, car payments (thank goodness for the Metro!) or any insurance premiums other than the annual minimum on my apartment, I don't usually feel like one. My post-college 20s up to this point occasionally feel something like a second round of early adolescence: a little awkward, with one foot still in college, trying to figure out how to be an adult and who, exactly, the adult version of Jessalyn Pinneo is. It can be frustrating, uncomfortable, stressful and confusing, but the reward of discovering who I am and making my own way is more than worth it.