Itty bitty city.
I tend to get a tad deep in my literary musings. It is a habit that I can’t seem to break, not that I’ve really tried. Sometimes my inner bitchy diva writer will tell me I should lighten up — people don’t want to always read about your layers, gugh. But then I remind myself that this thoughtful brain dump is simply my style. Just as I’d describe my fashion sense as an expression of my personality…refined, comfortable and fun, similarly my writing style reflects the relentless brain waves that whirl within me, Tsunami style.
After finding a two-top window table to muster up today’s blog subject, by the time I had taken an initial swig from my Captain Buzzy’s medium house brew, I already had five ideas to work with. A few fell within the deep diving inner dialogue zone, so for principle, instead I’m going with the one that offers no psychological analysis.
Richmond is so damn small.
The greater metropolitan area population isn’t too shabby, at over 1 million. And 200,000 of those actually live in the city. But for the love, I can’t get away from my Exs.
For one, I went to college here. So the last dozen years of my personal drama is mapped out for the remaining graduates who reside here to dabble in. Then, the closed circuit communication that is known as Facebook, only perpetuates that. People went from gossiping in the Student Commons to ichatting on their office lunch breaks or between changing diapers.
The “night life” [if you can even call it that] is teeny tiny. When you ask someone where they are going, it is an absent question. Just like when you inquire, “How are you?” You already know what they’re going to say…”I’m fine.” They’re either going to Robinson & Main or Tobacco (Row), and the West Enders are going to one of their three choices.
With all of that said, you’re guaranteed to run into an old flame every 45 days. Just last week while piddling around the grocery store post-workout, I ran into a guy I dated a few years back. And boy did I look busted. Literally, his cart ran into mine, he shuffled around to get by, I looked up and said his name. It took him a few seconds to register who I was, which sadly, I’m honestly not sure if that was a reflection of my level of bustedness or because he is used to seeing me as a blonde. But he was just as nice as ever and seemed to be doing well. Which, of course, I already knew through the digital grapevine.
Today I applied to a marketing manager job @ a major corporation in town. An ex works there too. It was his first career since graduating in the early 2000’s & remains there today. Although I cringed at possibly having to walk that awkward line past his desk for an interview, I couldn’t *not* take an opportunity simply from avoiding the ex files.
Another fella I courted for a minute and a half last spring who I’ve kept in touch with has been insinuating he wants a rematch. I’ve gone back & forth about giving it another shot. My history of past relationships not working, but then beating them to a pulp in hopes they turn into magic marriage juice doesn’t seem to work.
And finally, my infamous relationship that has inexplicably followed the Carrie/Mr. Big script for 6 seasons is a constant in my back pocket. Unless one of us skips town with a one-way ticket, we’re bound to end up in the same room at the same time for some birthday, wedding, or any given Friday night bar crawl. Those run ins always guarantee a good story.
In a medium size media market such as the state’s capital that is large enough to have identifying “sides” of town — if there is one thing Richmond is not, it certainly isn’t big enough to escape your past.
My only saving grace seems to be this disguise, err I mean, my new hair color.
