My existence is a bit manic as it involves straddling two worlds - my old life in San Francisco and my spanking new life in Denver. As my client insists I show my face in the Bay Area at least once a month, I'm never given a chance to fully miss my fabulous former hometown. I welcome the opportunity to keep in touch but there are moments of confusion so profound that I find myself forgetting where I live.
This afternoon, I had to call my pal, Gins, to ask an important question: "Where do I live? I have a faint memory of moving somewhere, does that ring a bell?"
She reminded me of my Colorado address, the garden, my new friends and the little cat waiting for me to come home. "Okay, yeah, that's what I thought. Just checking," I said.
I've spent the last few days staying at my old apartment (now my cousin's place) and enjoyed a fabulous night on the town (saw Sinead O'Connor at the Davies Symphony Hall) with my former beau. I'm now sitting the in the same office I sat in for years and suddenly, it feels like nothing has changed.
This is good and bad, depending on the day, but it's mostly just plain creepy.