A couple of Sundays ago The Husband and I attended a hockey game, my first, that pitted the Atlanta Thrashers against the New York Islanders.  TH is already learning that there is a price to pay for watching sports in my presence, and that price is explaining to me the rules of each sport.  Girly girl that I am, athletic events have a history of being a great reason to wear a new outfit…or go to a bar…but when it comes to what’s actually happening on the field (rink, court) I could not be more clueless.  And when it comes to the decidedly non-Southern sport of hockey, my knowledge is even less than nominal.  Down to which team is which, so I asked TH, as I looked at the hulks on ice, the question “Which one are we?”  Then I thought about the meta-ness of that inquiry, considering the two teams playing.  The city where we met and fell in love, and the city where we live our married life.  Which one are we?

I miss New York this time of year.  (Ask me again how I feel in February.)  I only attended the Rockefeller Center tree lighting my first year as a resident (and by “attended” I mean emerged from the subway and tried to maneuver through a crowd of tourists, policemen, and barricades in freezing temperatures before throwing up my hands and heading back underground and uptown toward the safety of my warm apartment).  But when I watched the special this week, I still felt that someone in the crowd was stealing my place.  When I watch Saturday Night Live (nope, never saw that in person either), I remember the last episode that TH and I watched as NYC citizens, from the couch in his apartment, and how I wildly suggested we try to track down their after-party and crash it (I had, possibly, been overserved earlier at dinner).  We did no such thing, but I did make a note to myself in that moment to remember what it felt like to watch Weekend Update and know that it was occurring a few blocks from where I sat.  To remember that for all the brokenness it took to get me there, I spent a pretty damn cool five years in the best city on earth.  And this week, when MAK posted pictures of her recent Manhattan visit, nostalgia swept over me.  I felt like an overbearing matriarch as I asked her for details and stopped just short of making sure she remembered to thank New York’s mom for letting her stay.

Yeah, I miss it.  But when I’m most honest with myself, I know I miss the way New York made me feel, that I miss being one of its am-badass-adors to the South.  I miss relating Beyonce and Jay-Z sightings, miss knowing what color the Empire State Building is each day and why, miss being included in limited release for movies (really, Atlanta?  No showings of The King’s Speech ANYWHERE?).  I miss being a New Yorker.

Now I am other things: an aunt, a homeowner, a wife.  Dr. Phillips, when I remember (I’ve unintentionally alternated between old and new names and left some confused patients in my dental wake).

The Sis and I may not be athletes, but we enjoy the sport of derision and we’re pretty good at it.  The objects of our attention lately have been the numerous neighborhoods surrounding my office, which is near her house.  Neighborhoods with names like Kensington and Fallkirk Pointe (don’t forget that E on the end! WTF?) and Arthur’s Vineyard (there’s no wine.  I checked.  False advertising!). And don’t forget Windsor Trace or The Parc at Lost Forrest (are you kidding me with this spelling?!).  Some of the most pretentious, unnecessary use of random titles I’ve ever heard.  TH and I were pleased not to end up with our first house choice for many reasons, not the least of would be telling people we lived in North Wellington.  Isn’t that a way to serve beef?  And do subdivisions need fancy names to feel good about themselves?  We’re in the South, where camouflage is a fashion choice.  It’s like these neighborhoods are wearing pearls and high heels to the gym.

The names I have now are not as temporary as so many I’ve had over the years, and I’m beginning to settle into them.  I’m so thankful to be out of that decade that involved a daily identity crisis, and the bad decisions made as I searched for who I was.  I’m so thankful that time was a thruway for me, and not where I ended up.  I’m so thankful that I didn’t wait for my new last name to be my new identity, but that I found out who I belonged to before I met my match and can now love him better because I know where my worth ultimately lies.

And I’m thankful that when it comes down to that “which one are we?” question, I don’t have to figure out which team belongs to each color.  I can secretly cheer for both.