I haven’t had one, not a single one, regret moving back to Denver from NYC. Sure, the city has a few places and people I miss, H&M, Uniqlo, Pearl Street Market, the Shake Shack, shots with Mike and Pirate Mike at Iggy’s, etc. But for the most part, I know I am where I truly belong. I missed the mountains, the gigantic skies, the stars being visible, and the freedom of driving a car on the open roads through the plains and hills. Yes’m the West is where I was raised. The West is where I am living. And the West is where I will grow old and eventually die.
Despite what you may think, we don’t all ride horses to work, live on dude ranches, and have pickup trucks. That will always be the dream, sure, but for the meantime, I’m happy with my Japanese import, uptown condo, and desk job. I do own my share of western wear (no ten-gallon Mr. Ernst hats or cowboy boots), but I am thinking it’s time to add to it. It would be nice to whip out a pocket watch with an eagle on it next time I find myself in a trendy SoHo bar eating a $75 entree and imbibing a $13 dollar rum and diet. Oh, to dream. Gid’yup.