As I mentioned in my last post, we moved to New Jersey and bought a car.
In order to register the car in NJ, I had to drive over to the building where they make you wait in long lines and fill out multiple forms to declare state residency. At the end of this long process, some guy behind a big counter snapped my picture and printed out a new New Jersey license with my name and information on it.
Then, chuckling to himself, he handed me my license and said “You are now officially a Jersey Girl.” The people around me chuckled as well.
I almost started crying.
As happy as I am at this very moment that I have a great job, a beautiful house, and an amazing husband,
when the license guy called me a “Jersey Girl” I suddenly realized that this was my life — I live in New Jersey. When I am 48, I’ll be living in New Jersey. When I am 97, I’ll be living in New Jersey. If I have kids, they will be Jersey kids in a Jersey school system with Jersey friends.
Now, I do not have any fundamental problems with New Jersey as a state. It is quite lovely. But, I don’t know anything about its history or quirks. I can’t even name the state flower or insect. Everything that I pride myself in knowing about Kansas doesn’t apply to my life here anymore, which makes me sad.
I’ve been sharing this story with Dave’s family as a “ha-ha aren’t I silly?” story, but something about the whole “You are now a Jersey Girl” really set me off kilter. I’m sure I’ll get over it, as soon as I study up on New Jersey history.
