2020 marks my tenth year in Colorado, and while I’m wild about this state, I can’t say I’ve always been entirely sure where we stand.
I moved here from New York City, where the general rule—written by transplants, I presume—is ten years. One decade in the city and you can call yourself a New Yorker. I left a few years shy of that, so even though I can tell you a hundred activities more exciting than a carriage ride through Central Park, and why you should never get excited about an empty subway car, I can’t say I was ever a true New Yorker.
Before that, I was in Texas for college. But there was never any question of me being a Texan. My midwestern vowels and references to “pop” made me a clear foreigner from the beginning. And I was okay with that. My status as a Longhorn felt like enough commitment for that stage of life. We had our own secret love language and hand gestures — “hook ‘em — and my burnt orange apparel had a drawer all to itself. I didn’t need a ring in the shape of The Lone Star State to make it official.
Going back to the beginning, I spent my entire childhood in the great state of Michigan, and if I’m being honest, my thoughts still return there every time I see a lake or hit a pothole. However, like most past relationships, I think I tend to remember the good and forget the gray. Plus, we had an amicable split when I turned 18 (and that’s over 18 years ago) so I don’t think I can officially call myself an Michigander any longer either.
This morning, when I asked my husband if he considered himself a Coloradan, he looked at me like I’d woken up with two heads.
“Of course,” he said, without skipping a beat. “I’ve lived here ten years.”
This shouldn’t have surprised me. He grew up in Utah. Maybe it’s a generalization, but I tend to find that, on the whole, Utahns commit and settle down quickly. Plus, it’s easy to fall in love with Colorado at first sight. People tend to describe this state with the same words you might find on an ideal dating profile. Outdoorsy. Adventurous. Rugged. While these are all qualities I appreciate, the reality is Colorado and I probably don’t match up perfectly on paper. I’ve never hiked a fourteener and I tend to slip away when the conversation turns to camping. Rattlesnakes and runaway truck ramps make my heart race — and not in a good way.
And yet, with each passing year, I have found more and more comfort in the same jagged peaks that once felt so foreboding. I’ve discovered an indescribable peace and respite in the cold streams that race between them, and a fairy tale feeling immersed in the shimmering aspens that seem to yellow overnight like paint splotches on the mountainsides each fall. After a few packing mishaps, I grew a deep appreciation for temperature changes that don’t depend on distance from the equator, and a reverence for the stubborn snow that clings to the north facing peaks long into summer.
Without realizing it, these mountains have worked their way into the backdrop of a great romance. A date night under the stars at Red Rocks. Dinner on Pearl Street. A reading at The Tattered Cover. A bike ride in Crested Butte. It didn’t happen all at once, but slowly, my crush developed into something deeper. I may not have been looking for Colorado when we met, but when I say “home” now I’m thinking only of the square-ish state with the bluest skies where we bought our first house, delivered my babies, and hope to watch them grow. For me anyways, that feels like enough to say “I do.”
