I have been accused of being a dabbler -- someone who hops in and out of jobs, groups, and residences quicker than the average person.
Others have named my disorder a reaction to boredom, which involves a constant need for a new, challenging project.
Lately, I've named myself a "participatory journalist" like George Plimpton who recorded his various experiences from the point of view as an amateur -- but in my case, rookie.
I have no problem accepting these labels, although I especially like the last one, and because I have no regrets about my quick decisions.
Every job I've had, including salesperson at the Gap, specialist at the Apple Store (three months apiece), and press aide for a Chicago mayor, communications director for a school superintendent, and account supervisor for public relations firms (one year each) introduced me to new friends, challenging assignments, fresh skills, and most importantly, essay topics.
The same "no regrets" applies to all of the neighborhoods I have convinced my spouses to move into. In my first marriage of 30 years, we lived in 15 different apartments, condos, or homes. Dear Tommy, who had lived in the same house for 25 years before I wandered into his life, was schlepped to three homes in 14 years. Since his death in 2012, I've lived in two different apartments, and now -- drum roll, please -- I'm ready to leave Los Angeles and return to Chicago.
So at lease end, I hope to move to an apartment in one of the high-rises in Lakeshore East, a location that will put this participatory journalist in the midst of the city's vibrancy and near friends and relatives -- some of whom could use support as they care for aging partners, or need a pal at their side for their own medical procedures.
This reverse move may come as a surprise to my readers and to viewers of published photos, all of which praise Los Angeles. These examples of my delightful eight months here with family and celebrities are accurate; there was no exaggeration.
But, being the quick decision-maker that I proudly call myself, I recognize I'm better off in Chicago, a city much easier to navigate for an older woman who elects not to drive. While my hometown does have its struggles, it has moved ahead on tough urban issues, such as a reliable and speedy public transit system, addressing homelessness, and creating a downtown viable for residents, college students, retail, and visitors. And then there's the pizza and hot dogs.
My decision doesn't mean I have flunked here, or have regrets about the cross-country move, for I have learned things about myself, which wouldn't have occurred if I hadn't done the shift.
For example, with a Metro senior citizen pass, I get to far-flung shopping centers and doctors' appointments. I find fulfillment by volunteering at a nonprofit agency, and by attending weekly Torah study. I have made a good friend -- another grandmother transplant -- who drives and shares her favorite L.A. highlights. And, I took a 6-week workshop on How to Write a Half-hour TV Comedy, completed an original pilot and a spec script, and gained a manager who continues to seek opportunities for me.
All of the above was accomplished relatively easy for a speed demon like myself, but the primary reason for my move to Los Angeles was much trickier. Because I had not lived in the same city as my daughters for 25 years, and since I was unfettered in Chicago (no husband, house, dog, car, debt), I thought the time was right to jump into their world.
It turns out that my daughters' whirlwind lives are already over-stuffed with career and family responsibilities. While they try to include me in as many events and gatherings as possible, I find myself insatiable. No matter how often I see them, it is never enough for me. Trying to make up for lost decades, and likely attempting to fill the void left by Tommy's death, I turned needy and greedy -- features unbecoming to me and difficult for my beloved daughters.
But, instead of considering this decision an abandonment of Los Angeles, I'll add Bi-Coastal to my labels and have the best of both worlds. For special events and family celebrations, in harsh winter months, and when the itch for something fresh enters my brain, I'll return to the city of treasured children and grandchildren, temperate climes, and glitter.
And when my L.A. and Boston daughters book a visit to see both Chicago parents -- hopefully with grandchildren in tow -- they'll have my new playground as an attraction.
Just think of the essays that await us.