My New (non)-Identity

 American Expat Wife. That about sums it up now. Although you would've never guessed it just a mere six months ago. Okay, okay, ten months now, since I had my own identity.  

 Anyhoo, not that long ago, I was a reporter at a big American newspaper in a big American town, where I grew up. I lived in a nice suburban house with my husband and our dog and occasionally our two boys, who were both in college. (the older one just graduated). I had a car. A yard. A job. A house. You know, the whole American thing.

  And then my big American newspaper, keeling over like every other big American newspaper, offered yet another buy-out and suddenly, I was eligible too, even though I didn't consider myself that old at a mere 53. (54 now, 55th looming this summer). 

  My husband and I talked about what we should do long and hard (I guess) and we came to our decision together, even though you KNOW -- even though you don't even know me -- that I've had to blame him at least a couple times on bad days. Gimme a break. We've been together 30 years. 

  Anyway, back to the plot. 

  I left my newspaper job last summer. We sold our nice suburban house. Although prices had come down, we were lucky to have sold it at all, although I have to remind myself of that now. We stayed in the U.S. through the election and Obama's inauguration for my husband's job. Then we moved to London with his job in February.   

  Which is technically where I live. Even though I wouldn't call what I have there a life. (more of a non-life, to go with my non-identity).    

  But that's all there. Right now, I'm sitting on the side of a hill in Italy, where I'm going to be for awhile.

  That's one of the big reasons we moved to London -- to be closer to where I am now, a house in Italy that my husband and I built over the past fifteen years -- the fulfillment of a lifelong dream (I guess).  My husband and I met in Italy three decades ago, when we were both living here in our mid-20s. I'm an Italian-American. He's British.   

   My husband is back in London working now. My boys are in the States. I'm here. Most of our furniture is in storage in London since none of it fit in our rented flat. My life is scattered all over the place. And everything feels like it's in the wrong place.

   I miss everything from my old life, even though I grumbled plenty when I was living it. I miss having a life. I miss my boys terribly, sometimes so much it physically hurts, even though I know they're supposed to be grown up now (I'm not sure they are).   

  Nobody forced this on us -- or me. We decided this. And it all made sense at the time. Really?  

  It's a great opportunity for me, people have told me. The beginning of the rest of my life and all that. Then why doesn't it feel like that?