You Know Nothing, Kelly

There’s a special kind of confidence that comes from living somewhere long enough to know exactly where to go for everything. Literally everything. You don’t even think about it anymore. You just know.

I no longer have that confidence. And, as the great philosophers of Westeros almost said: “You know nothing, Kelly Wright.”

Having recently moved out of town, I have become completely useless in my own life.

Around town, I knew everything. I had systems. Reliable systems. I knew Nick at Abbot Automotive would squeeze me in when my car started making “the sound.” You know the one. The mysterious squeaky, shuddering brake sound that magically disappears when Nick gets behind the wheel and takes Darryl (my car) for a ride. What will I do without this kind of service that ultimately gets me “the look” because nothing is wrong and I just got new brakes a few months ago? Sigh.

I knew Green Cottage could create a bouquet for literally any life situation. Birthday? Gorgeous. Sympathy arrangement? Perfect. “I’m on my way to an event, their favorite color is purple, between $45 and $50, and I need flowers immediately?” Somehow still elegant.

I knew where to get my hair done without fear and my nails done without regret. I knew which gas station had the fastest pumps and took the least amount out of my bank account. I knew which grocery store sold produce that lasted longer than a reality TV marriage, or any marriage these days.

Most importantly, I knew where to get ice cream worth the calories and a Benny’s pizza slice that delivers what can only be described as an edible soul hug.

That’s real adulthood, by the way. Not paying taxes. Not owning throw pillows. Knowing where the good soft serve is.

Then you move.

And suddenly, you realize your entire life was held together by local knowledge and specific routines. I had favorites! Now, every errand feels like a gamble. Which, I should be used to, but I am not.

I recently Googled “best oil change near me,” which immediately made me nostalgic for the days when I simply drove somewhere familiar and trusted people who already knew my car, my schedule and my personality.

Now I’m forced to read online reviews written by people named “HotDogDaddy72.”

“Friendly service!”
“Fast turnaround!”
“Forgot to put my tire back on.”

Cool. Cool, cool, cool.

Finding a new hairstylist may also be the closest thing women experience to entering witness protection. You sit in a strange salon, trying to explain your hair history to someone holding scissors, who asks, “What vibe are we thinking?”

Ma’am. Survival. Just survival.

I don’t want a bold new look. I want to emerge recognizable to my friends and family.

The nail salon search isn’t much better. People casually say, “Oh, you HAVE to try this place,” like I’m choosing appetizers instead of entering a deeply personal long-term relationship. Once you find someone who understands your preferred nail shape, doesn’t destroy your cuticles and knows you’ll ultimately choose the same neutral pink after pretending you might “do something fun this time,” that loyalty runs deep.

Meanwhile, I’m out here starting over like a pioneer woman searching for civilization.

And can we discuss how weirdly personal gas stations become? Back home, I had a favorite. Everybody does. You know which station has the good coffee, which one has chaotic parking lot energy and which one somehow charges 18 cents more per gallon for absolutely no reason. Now I’m pulling into random stations hoping for the best and praying I don’t accidentally buy a bagel stored next to the windshield wiper fluid.

This entire experience has made me realize how much comfort exists in tiny familiarity. We think we’re attached to big things: homes, jobs, memories, people.

But sometimes we’re attached to smaller things. The florist who remembers your favorite flowers. The waitress who already knows your order. The mechanic who tells you, “You’ve probably got another six months on those brakes,” and you believe him with your entire soul.

That kind of familiarity quietly becomes part of your identity.

Then you move, and suddenly you know nothing.

You become the person posting desperate questions online:

Best dentist?
Best pizza?
Best salon?
Best ice cream?

And local people answer with the passion of medieval village elders.

“Ask for Melissa.”
“Don’t go on Tuesdays.”
“The parking is awful but worth it.”
“The owner is strange, but the cannoli will heal emotional wounds.”

Honestly, community recommendations may be humanity’s purest form of love.

The good news is that, slowly, you start rebuilding. You find your people. Your places. Your routines. One day, without realizing it, you’ll catch yourself saying, “Oh no, don’t go there. The better place is two blocks down.”

That’s when you realize you’ve started belonging again.

So don’t worry, newbies around town. One day you, too, will know where to get the best slice, the fastest oil change, the prettiest flowers and the ice cream worth standing in line for.

Until then, though, if anyone has recommendations for a great pedicure, excellent flowers, or life-changing ice cream, I’m listening. But as far as Nick at Abbot Automotive goes? I’ll happily drive 45 minutes for an oil change and emotional stability.