I am a former California girl who traded in beaches for mountains, avocados for peaches, in-tact windshields for chipped glass, microbreweries for … different microbreweries, and marijuana dispensaries for … more marijuana dispensaries (I suppose this is God’s way of saying, “Hey, Anna. Pssst. I love you.”).
As of this month, I am officially a Coloradan. It happened to me like it happens to anybody else. Drove everything I own to Colorado, con artisted my way into gainful employment, had my picture taken at the DMV, received a temporary paper license, grumbled over my photo, promptly lost said paper license, found paper license with the help of what could pass for a SWAT search team, tried to buy a drink with paper license (request denied), dug through all my things to locate my invalid license (request granted) and then sucked down four celebratory Bloody Marys. That’s how it happens right? Is that not how it happens?
The real thing finally came in the mail, though, and I’m stoked. And you know, it’s about more than just surrendering my California identity/residency. It’s about embracing the Subaru-driving-14'er-loving-stoner stereotype that I now have legal permission to claim as my own. Truly an honor.
It was last weekend, on a hike, after tripping over a half-eaten deer leg on a mountain, when I thought to myself: I’ve made it.
(Will I still hold on to my hole-punched CA license? You bet.)
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