It's so hard to say goodbye
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Chances are, when a husband comes home with a bottle of champagne out of the blue, he has done one of two things:
1. Something very, very good.
2. Something very, very bad.
So two weeks ago, when my very own husband came home with a bottle of champagne, I was prepared for either toasting to good news or whacking him upside the head with none-too-gentle force.
"So, how do you feel about Boston?"
And just like that, he popped the cork and our lives changed. Seven little words and suddenly we had an entirely different future we were looking at (albeit looking at somewhat fuzzily thanks to the champagne).
As it turns out, 'ol Schnookum Bear, that talented little rascal, got a job at the Boston Globe and in just a few days, we will be moving back to Yankeeland. (Naturally, this also means I'm going to have change my husband's nickname to Polar Bear considering it's a balmy 12 degrees there today).
I had always known we would eventually make our way back North, mainly to be closer to our families once we start popping out spawn of our own. But that was always in the unknowable "someday."
Well, "someday" is now today and while I am absolutely thrilled at this new adventure we're about to embark on, I can't get over the fact it's all happening so fast. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of packing, cleaning, planning, tying up loose ends and arguing over why in the world one woman possibly needs that many shoes (Because I can, Polar Bear. Because I can). In fact, it's been so chaotic that I haven't had time to even think of saying my good-byes.
Goodbyes. Oh, how I hate them. They're never easy and they always bring up feelings and junk. To be honest, I think that's why I've been avoiding them. I mean, how do you say goodbye to the place that has been your home the past five years?
How do you say goodbye to co-workers and friends who immediately adopted you and your husband as one of their own? Who acted as surrogate grandmas, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles and even those annoying cousins from "that" side of the family? Who watched and shared your joy as your budding romance turned into an engagement and then eventually wedded bliss (minus the occasional shoe argument)? Who laughed and cried with you and even more importantly, bought you drinks during happy hour while you laughed and cried (often at the same time) after work?
And how do you thank bosses who helped make your life-long dream of becoming a humor columnist come true? Who gave you enough breathing room to let you develop your own writing voice? Who even supported your idea to make "Chupacabra the Musical" on company time?
How do you let your fans know how grateful you are for their support and that they are the reason you kept going when the critics got you down? Better yet, how do you express your utter amazement and joy that you can type "fans" in plural form now that more than just your mother reads these things?
How do you let sources who put up with calls and e-mails at all hours of the day and night know how much you appreciated all they did for you?
The truth is, there are no words, either spoken or written, that could do justice to what I truly feel for all the people I've met along the way. I came here as a naive 24-year-old girl (who wrote about farts and boogers) who followed the guy she liked down to Texas and am leaving a 29-year-old confident, married woman (who writes more sophisticatedly about farts and boogers) who is about to embark on a great adventure. And it's because of all the support and love and even the criticism I received during my time here.
(See? Good-byes. Feelings and junk. Ugh).
There is good news though (although it could be perceived as absolutely horrible news depending on what you think of my writing). This column isn't good-bye forever. Thanks to a gracious offer from my bosses, I will continue this column from Boston...ahem, excuse me...Bah-stun. So even though I'm moving on, I'll still be a part of this paper and this community, if even in only a small way.
So, basically, in other words, you're never going to get rid me, yo.
Aprill Brandon is a reporter for the Advocate. Er...well, was a reporter for the Advocate. Now she's just mostly unemployed.