A Change in Plans

Written in September 2013

Dad just finished cramming my life into the trunk of my 2005 Acura SUV.

I’m frank with my pack rat tendencies and have a lot of accumulated shit. I was proud of my father — only he, with his brilliant, spatial mind and his stubborn patience, could geometrically cram my slime green loveseat into the car along with 22 years of compiled crap and 143 hangers.

“Well, kiddo, I’m all done,” he said. I could tell by the hesitation in his voice that maybe he had wished he hadn’t solved the tangram puzzle. Maybe if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be leaving tomorrow.

“Thanks, Dad,” I replied, giving him a bear hug. I was trying not to cry (but I was), and when my arms went limp in our embrace, he didn’t let go. We lingered. He sniffled a bit and I noticed a small tear drop slowly trickle down his face, breaking at his steel wool mustache.

I had only seen my dad cry two times before: at his father and his older brother’s funerals.

“You come back now, ya hear?”

I rolled my eyes, pretending to be annoyed with yet another one of Dad’s corny jokes. “Never.” I grinned — kidding of course.

I am my father’s pride and joy, his first child and only girl. We have a unique relationship, an ionic bond that most mother and daughter pairs or sisters or identical twins share. I’ve told him everything monumental in my life, from my first kiss to my first heartbreak to every hope and dream and fear I’ve ever hidden in the deepest crannies of my mind. He even bought me my first box of Tampons.

And now, his baby girl was leaving home for good.

We walked inside and I poured him and me a glass of La Crema chardonnay to celebrate. “Special occasion wine,” he calls it. I was doing it — I was actually doing it. I was moving exactly 2,023 miles away from my home to a foreign place where I knew exactly two people.

For three months now, I’d feigned a big, fat smile and pretended like I was excited to move to Los Angeles, to “start the next chapter of my life” (whatever the hell that idiom means); to pursue a writing career at E! Online; to stalk, meet, embody and become the next Chelsea Handler; to live the dream in California.

I’d faked countless smiles in hundreds of conversations, lying and saying “I’m so excited!” to Mrs. McKee and Mr. Roer at my graduation party, or “I am so very lucky to have this opportunity” to Grandma and Professors Tuggle and McDonald, or “I’m ready to be a real person and not feel like a hungover piece of shit five of the seven nights of the week” to my former roomies and party collaborators. And then — the biggest lie that I told myself, branded into my brain and chanted in my sleep, and which I said over and over to myself, “I’m ready for me time.”

To everyone, I was lucky and driven and I deserved this opportunity. In their eyes, I belonged on the West Coast and I was “just different enough to fit in” and blah blah BLAH when really I knew I would never fit in and all I felt was my throat closing in on me, the onset of a panic attack. I was scared. I was sad. I was unhappy. And it all boiled down to this: I didn’t want to leave.

A life in Chicago, my home of 16 years, would’ve been easy. Predictable. The friendships I’d made in the 6th grade remained intact and had arguably grown — Maddie and Lizzy and Grace and Lauren and I were BFFs, after all —and I wouldn’t have had the time, energy or desire to break from that comfortable bubble. I would’ve done the same thing every night of every weekend and gone to Barley Corn in Lincoln Park to drink whiskey for the 357th time with my girlfriends. I would’ve gotten an apartment in the West Loop or Wrigleyville, barely affording rent but buying a 12-inch Lou Malnati’s deep-dish, sausage pizza every Tuesday night for $15.60 anyways. I would’ve dated and married a born-and-bred Blackhawks fan, and our children probably would’ve come out of the womb wearing red, green, orange and yellow feathers. I would’ve loved my life, however predictable it would’ve been.

I didn’t want to leave, but I was going to do it. I had to. I couldn’t pass up such a prestigious opportunity at E! I had accepted the offer in March, a time when I was living a euphoric last semester of college and blinded to the concept of the real world. 2,023 miles from home? No big deal. I had signed paperwork in early August, just two and a half weeks ago. And I had just made a $1,200 deposit on a one-year lease in Santa Monica yesterday.

Mom and I were set to leave in the morning. We were going to make the 2,023 mile drive to Los Angeles and we were going to do it in exactly 30 hours, split over three days, stopping in Fort Collins, Colo., and a town in Nevada I had never heard of due to Mom’s aversion to Vegas.

Just as I sat down to enjoy my wine and my last night with Dad, my phone lit up. “Email from Romina,” it said. It was 7:56 p.m., Chicago time, meaning it was only 5:56 p.m. on the West Coast. Romina, my former and future boss, usually left work around 6 p.m., so it would make sense that she would email me before she headed home for the night.

She’s checking in on me, I thought. Rightfully so…I’m starting work in 11 days.

Instead: “Kaelyn — we are sorry to inform you that your positions as a writer at E! Online no longer exists due to budget cuts. We wanted to inform you as soon as possible so that you can make proper adjustments.”

I threw up.