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Geographic anniversary

Decaturish updates

Geographic anniversary

Wife and cat chillin' in the backyard.

Wife and cat chillin’ in the backyard.

There are few times I’ve celebrated living in a duplex, but I think this is worth mentioning:

I’m approaching my one-year anniversary of living in Decatur.

Living in Decatur is no great challenge, unless you’re passionate about frozen yogurt and have divided loyalties.

We have our share of break-ins and robberies. All cities do.

But we always should remember that we could be living in West Midtown.

I lived not too far from the Georgia Public Broadcasting building for my first year in Atlanta. We paid several hundred dollars more in rent to landlords who drove us insane. One fateful evening, we had our tires slashed along with every other car in our parking deck.

We will always suspect, but never be able to prove, that the tire slashings were deliberate.

The best thing about getting your tires slashed in West Midtown is having your mother-in-law from Wetumpka, Ala. in town. Wetumpka’s a lovely, remote corner of Alabama, famous for its endless starry skies and its women’s prison.

My mother-in-law had some anxiety about us moving to the big city. Getting her tires slashed during her first visit to town didn’t help much.

I’m proud to announce that we have achieved a 100 percent reduction in tire slashings since we moved to Decatur. Walkability is also up 60 percent, restaurant spending increased by Eleventy Billion Percent and Spring optimism saw a slight increase – up 3 percent, which is a bit higher than last year, but essentially flat when you consider this year’s elevated Winter Suckitude Index.

Decatur is a magical place, where Hipsters abound and children scream at all hours of the day for no apparent reason.

It isn’t as edgy as living in Little Five, with its strange mix of starving artists and theatrical panhandlers. It’s a place where adults can be all adult in a calm, enabling environment.

The high school hosts a community garden and can fill up the bleachers for junior-varsity disc golf.

Entire families wear mowhawks.

There’s a place that sells Hipster coffee and a place that sells Yoga Mom coffee.

There’s a PATH trail with a train track next to it. The jerk-face engineer  likes to blow that whistle when my back is turned to him and I have my headphones in.

MARTA buses take your lunch money.

They let you buy all the corn whiskey you want at Thinking Man.

People are genuinely nice to each other. The city government provides everyone the same level of service, no matter their social status. It’s almost as if a bunch of people with PhDs are living here and electing smart people to run things.

Oh, and Twains. Twains.

I could gush on and you know one of these fine nights someone’s going to park in a bike lane and I’ll flood the internet with righteous indignation.

But the only way I’m leaving Decatur is in a pine box.