Like all fabled love stories, we hated each other in the beginning.
I was a bright-eyed baby fresh out of Dodge and you were larger than life. So complicated, so distant and, although the sun was always shining, somehow so cold.
I came to follow my dreams but instead you gave me nightmares. You acquainted me with deep disappointment and sometimes depression — things I’d known existed, but had never known.
You did your best to run me out of town but I dug in my heels and said sorry, I’m staying.
And I did. And it was awkward. But we tolerated each other, then got used to each other, then one day wondered if we might like each other, though neither of us would admit it. You showed me the secret spot at Ocean Park, the beauty of Temescal Canyon, you fed me the most delicious food. You taught me to cook Broccolini and do yoga, and gave me just enough cloud cover to accomplish my morning run without a sunburn.
You gave me friends I found family in, who filled in so many cracks.
I clumsily grew up, became more independent — stopped needing your approval so much. And then when I thought I was done with you, you gave me Scott. And I finally told you how I felt when I married him on your turf.
Because he married the me you turned me into — the one who knows bad things will happen and that she will survive them. The one who is less idyllic but a little more real.
I had no idea what you had in store for me when I came here, had I known I wouldn’t have come.
I’m so glad I didn’t know.
I love you, Los Angeles, despite the fact that STREET SWEEPING IS A LIE.
Here’s to five years.
An early and very heavily-filtered LA-gram