Nine years ago, I cashed in my advertising career so I could be a stay-at-home mom. Seduced by the idea of a simple but interesting life, we left the big city and moved to a small town where the houses were cheaper and the grass seemed greener.
We chose a pretty town: well-stocked with perennial gardens, award-winning schools and historic homes. It’s a town where the local folk take their utopia seriously. Everyone is out happily exercising, volunteering, fundraising and dressing like the pages of a JCrew catalog.
Socially, however, it’s more arduous than high school. I do my best to slog through it, but some days the local delight is too wearying and my face hurts from smiling.
It’s amazing that after all this time, I still consider myself an immigrant. I stumble with the language and customs, my clothes aren’t quite right, and I really miss the food (only a handful of good restaurants here despite what the natives tell you).
My two daughters have adjusted well – I mean, who wouldn’t want to grow up in such a pretty place? And my husband seems to have made a good go of things, too. It’s just me that feels beleaguered by all the white picket fences.
This blog chronicles my journey towards assimilation – one small moment at a time. With any luck, I may get there one day.