My New Address

I was sitting on my porch this evening, imbibing the crisp fall air as my dinner digested, when I received a call from a 216 number. Some people screen their calls, and I think this is a bit pretentious, unless you are running from creditors, bookies, or the cops. Personally, I love the excitement of not knowing who is on the other end. Perhaps it is a long lost friend whose number had been erased throughout numerous phone changes or that random guy to whom I accidentally gave my number after a few drinks. Whoever it is, if they are calling, they deserve to talk to me. I answered, only to be met with the voice of a young college student requesting I give money to the John Carroll Blue and Gold Club... and that is why people screen their calls. Although not prevalent to my story, I did get suckered into donating money; I also requested that my money be funneled toward the tennis team fund, which, with the addition of my twenty five dollars, would probably increase two-fold.

The young gentleman informed me of his position and went on to ask for my information. Was I still residing at 12444 Woodin Road? (Although he did not use the word residing, as it has three syllables and is too robust for a freshman at John Carroll.) No, I was not. Giving him my new address, I recited the only other address I have ever verbalized, 4193 Wyncote Road, that small college street that once made the news for its exorbitant number of robberies. But no, that was not my address, either.

Earlier this week, I was visited by a dear friend from home. It was refreshing to see a familiar face and rewarding to reveal a glimpse of my new life to someone so close to me. It was also bizarre. As I rambled about my job, roommates, and miscellaneous Charlottesville adventures, I realized that he was no longer a part of these stories. Beyond that, no one was. Those whose company I have always cherished, and always will cherish, have become part of my past. They will, of course, be part of my future as well, but this particular adventure is one all of my own.

Perhaps it is because the holidays are quickly approaching, but I have been thinking about going back to Cleveland recently. I am very excited, and it will be wonderful to enjoy the company of friends and family. I will go out for dinner or a drink and it will be as if no time has passed. I will go to Grandma's on Thanksgiving and fight over who gets the turkey skin and inevitably eat way too much, no matter the pep talk I give my stomach beforehand. We will sit at home and watch hours of football, possibly breaking out the classic Navatsyk home videos. I will hug Caleb and Briella and hope that my absence has only made their hearts grow fonder, although I fear this adage only applies after a certain age. However, when I pull into 12444 Woodin Road, I will not be entering the driveway of my home. My home is 983 Pintail Lane. Honestly, I would not have it any other way.