I Want Roots…but not too deep….

I met and fell in love with my now husband through one of the best dating services around: a high-tech software company. Now, while I am not usually a proponent of fishing in the company pool – there are issues such as professionalism, self-respect, and reputation at play here – we innocently became friends more outside of work and traveled in the same circles socially. He’s sweet, sarcastic, and Scottish. And after a budding friendship, I became smitten.

Before we met, I was a free-spirited Marina gal. I lived in the homogenous boutique-laden Marina District, happily flitting from bar to bar, taking walks along the Bay towards the Golden Gate, and unwittingly becoming more and more attached to a “neighborhood.” I had moved around so much that this was a new emotion for me. I had “my” coffee shop, “my” gym, “my” bar….and “my” dry cleaner.

When my love and I got engaged, I was over the moon. And, embarking on our life together, we decided to move to a new neighborhood in the city which was a better commute for us. It was a big step. I LOVED my neighborhood. But I hated that I was so attached. Don’t be silly, I thought: You're just getting lazy and don’t want to get to know a new area. You really need to branch out. Explore, experience. Don’t be afraid.

So we moved to a charming neighborhood on the other side of town called Noe Valley, aka, “Where Marina Girls Go to Breed.” Seriously, this was a much more family-oriented area but with many shops, restaurants, and boutiques to cater to those like me who were not quite ready to move to the Burbs. It’s an adorable locale where one can get much for their money space-wise and our apartment was beautiful – high ceilings, painted walls, back deck, the whole nine yards.

So I took a deep breath and steeled myself to get to know my new hood. And, joy of joys, there was a dry cleaner right across the street from our new place! Hopeful to wrap myself in another blanket of warmth and familiarity, I marched over with our first batch of clothes. I was met with a formal nod and a sternly efficient check-in process. The short little Asian couple processed me like a breadline. Where was my chit chat? And I almost cried as I had to spell my name for the first time in 6 years. I tried to smile and engage but I got nothing. I felt like the girl who tries too hard to flirt with that guy in the bar who just reacts with a blank stare. “Do you mind? You’re blocking my view of that tasty blonde?”

Dejected, I came home and promptly told my husband sadly, “I don’t like that dry cleaner.” He laughed and asked, “Do you have to have a personal relationship with your dry cleaner?” My glare shredded his clothing and caused him to back out of the room slowly. I love his sarcasm, truly, but sometimes he lacks timing.

But after a while, I considered his statement carefully. Why DID I need to feel close to the dry cleaner? I was a strong, healthy woman with a successful career, caring family, and wonderful friends: why was I seeking validation from the people who launder my pants?

Realization came eventually. It wasn’t that I had nothing else in my life. I just missed the familiarity of “home.” I hadn’t had that since I was a kid and I liked connecting with my neighbors. During a particularly tumultuous time in my life consisting of a broken engagement, three high-tech start-up layoffs, and an extremely unhealthy relationship, one constant remained: my Marina hood. The world swirled around me in unrest and uncertainty, but Patrick and his mother still did my dry cleaning. I came to appreciate the familiarity of routine, the warmth of chit chatting with a local business owner, the trust that allows you to pay by check while you are overshadowed by an ominous “No Checks Accepted” sign at the register. In short, I missed home.

The post-script to all of this drama is I actually have bonded with my dry cleaners and they now greet me like Norm on Cheers. Oh, and their son just got married last month at St. Monica’s Church. They were so excited. The family was all flying in, there was TONS to do, etc., etc. And you know what? Maybe it never mattered. I have to admit I still don’t feel like this ‘hood is “home” yet but it’s getting there. My actual apartment, my life with my husband – all of that makes it safe and warm. And that is all the home I really need right now. That, and the trips back to the Marina to get my nails done at Bella and Final Touch. Some dependencies are too hard to break.