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I was completely freaked out — not in the sexy “Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted” way, but in the “wow, you’re really eating mashed potatoes for every meal, huh? I went to visit a friend in Anchorage in February 2002, and it felt right.I sold all of my furniture, quit my job, bought a car, and spent two months by myself on a cross-country road trip to Alaska.I was at my most independent while I lived in Alaska.It was isolating at times, and I definitely listened to Grant Lee Buffalo’s “Happiness” on repeat in my driveway one night while crying into a large pizza for one, but when everyone you know lives 3,000 miles away, you can really amp up the dormant part of your hedonistic tendencies.I hadn’t changed anything about the way I looked or behaved, and I didn’t want to.But somehow, in Alaska, I was like one of those plants that only bloom once a century — it took most of my life up to that point to gain the strength and confidence I needed to really shine.
In the four years I lived in Anchorage, I dated more than I probably will for the rest of my life.He had thick black hair and tattoos that made it look like robot parts were embedded under his skin instead of a skeleton; he frequently told me that he was used to dating girls who wore a lot of makeup, and it was nice that I looked the same way waking up as I did falling asleep, since I don’t wear any.I worked in a used bookstore, which was a petri dish of makeups, breakups, hookups, and that one customer who looked like Robert Goulet and always hung out near the Left Behind series.I worked too much to even consider dating when I moved back to New York, aside from a few great make-out sessions in the local Irish pub at closing time.By the time I moved to Alaska, I had been in a relationship without ever having been on a date.
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There’s a saying about dating in Alaska: The odds are good, but the goods are odd.