I think I'm beginning to look like mine.
It's been about a year since we moved to
Washington, D.C., from
Texas. I have to admit I'm a little concerned about how well I've
adapted.
"My greatest fear," I told my wife a few weeks after moving to the
nation's capital, "is that one of these days, I'm going to think
this place is normal."
That day is here.
For example, something didn't bother me in traffic this morning.
For the life of me, I can't remember what it was.
It happened while driving home from taking Sam to school, that much
I remember. After that, nothing.
Was it that someone cut me off and I didn't lay on the horn? Maybe
somebody honked at me for an infraction I didn't commit and I
didn't shoot him one of my patented withering sidelong glances.
I don't recall. I have only a vague recollection of calm in a
storm.
That I can't recall what occasioned my nonresponse is part of why
the event is so telling: I've come to expect these things.
Why? Because I live here now.
There are a lot of measures of how well you're adapting to a new
home. One is being known when you walk into a favorite restaurant.
Another is how comfortable you are getting from your house to the
bank without using a map. A third is a noticeable decrease in
comparing things from your new residence to things from your old.
I have a new measure: the quality of your aggravations.
I don't get aggravated by Washington's traffic anymore. Well, not
too much, anyway. Indeed, if anything, I've come to marvel at how
courteous the drivers are. I'm not kidding.