I went to the DMV today to renew my driver’s license. I could have avoided the trip, but I wanted to take a new picture. Along with a new picture, I also changed my address. My driver’s license has always listed my address as [redacted] Street in Hacienda Heights. I never got around to changing it because I assumed I’d move back after college.
Six years after college, I’m still in the same apartment I moved to eight years ago. Even though I’ve been on my own for a little while, I still had to check with my dad about changing my address. See, I’ve never had my my own car insurance. My dad does that, and I pay him every month for my share of the premium. I wanted to know if changing my address would increase my insurance rates. I figured driving in LA would riskier than driving in the suburbs.
“Probably,” he said. He didn’t tell me what to do, but he seemed to lean toward not changing my address.
I made up my mind hastily.
“I’m going to change it,” I told him. “I’m never going to live there again.”
Partly inspired by this exchange between Andrew Largeman and Sam in Garden State:
Largeman: You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of the sudden even though you have some place where you can put your stuff that idea of home is gone.
Sam: I still feel at home in my house.
Largeman: You’ll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it’s just gone. And you can never get it back. It’s like you get homesick for a place that doesn’t exist. I mean it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place.