Los Angeles is like the boyfriend you know is wrong for you, but the sex is good.

I recently moved back to Phoenix. We bought a great little historic house near downtown. I have a gorgeous upstairs office with a brick wall. The house has creaky floors and great molding. It’s lovely, sun-dabbled, with an amazing kitchen. I feel safe here. The trees in the backyard provide the best shade from the Arizona sun.

It’s a wonderful place to call home. When it cools off, I will plant a garden, maybe some roses. The address is even whimsical. I have no complaints. Taxes are better in Arizona. The people on our street are down-to-earth and friendly. I don’t have to listen to the personal trainers on the lawn downstairs or roll my eyes when the elevator doesn’t work. It’s perfect here.

And yet, some days, usually late at night, I miss LA. I miss our apartment, the boats, the buzz and energy, the rush. I overheard someone say recently, “People either love Los Angeles or they hate it.” I love it—the surprise chilly nights, the tourists, the anything-goes attitude. I loved living there.

But it can be emotionally vacant, unbelievably expensive, and riddled with red tape when trying to accomplish anything more than taking selfies. Los Angeles is overrun with unhoused people, Barbies and Kens, and a general air of superiority that gets annoying. The majority of tanned bodies are on their phones or at the gym. I’m not about that life. I’m a big book reader over a weight-repper any day.

Los Angeles and I have nothing in common. We are polar opposites, but now that we’ve broken up and I’ve crossed the state line, something lost lingers. It’s something I don’t need—something unrealistic and silly—but I miss it anyway as I sit in my delightful new home.

Maybe in a couple of months, the monsoons will clear my head, but for now, I still light at the thought of my old patio, walks around the marina, and that fantastic trash chute.

My thoughts from the laundry room. You Up?

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