Keep the Change

I am already travel weary, and word has it I have nine more days of this. My usual Starbucks is closed for renovations, and I am being forced to venture just over the county line to a different one. Geographically, not that far, but a good distance from my comfort zone.

Yesterday, as I sat and blogged in my exotic new location, I felt a bit more comfortable when I saw several people I know, fellow outcasts finding themselves in unfamiliar surroundings. One at a time, they came to visit with me, to commiserate about our new -- hopefully temporary -- nomadic existence. I could feel my anxiety melting away, just knowing I wasn't alone.

When I first moved to deep dark suburbia, it was difficult to locate a Starbucks. I found it difficult to locate signs of life in general, having grown up in an urban area and having spent nine years prior to the Mayberry move living in Chicago. I missed being able to walk out my door and see people, to take a walk and actually end up somewhere, to enjoy the sights and sounds of a landscape filled with much more than rows of neat little houses. In the big city, I varied my route constantly; there was always something new to see, some new Starbucks sprouting up on a different corner.

But up here in deep dark suburbia, where it has taken me so long to find my niche (still looking), it's a bit disconcerting when things change. Yesterday, the construction workers at my usual site snickered as I slammed into the immobile door, despite the huge sign telling me it was closed. I live on automatic pilot. I could probably get from my kitchen to my car to my comfy purple velour chair in my Starbucks with my eyes closed.

Day two in the foreign location, and I've already seen two fellow outcasts. They both wanted to know why I wasn't snuggled up in a comfy chair the way I usually am at home. One step at a time folks; the chairs are different here from what I'm used to -- not-so-soft-looking faux leather -- so for now I'll stick with the tables. Change is just not easy for me these days.

My mom is flying into town this morning. When I pick her up at the airport, she will be low on blood sugar and caffeine, and looking forward to our routine bee line to the neighborhood Starbucks. There's going to be hell to pay when I break the news to her. This is a woman who has lived on the same Brooklyn street for eighty years. For her, change isn't just difficult; it's downright repulsive.

I'm hoping the shock and dismay of travelling out of our comfort zone to a different Starbucks will distract her, and she won't have the energy to complain about how cold my house is. For a change.