I’ve been fermenting kombucha for weeks.

I’ve packed fourteen pairs of leggings—and I don’t even work out.

I’ve steeped myself in self-tanner like a human tea bag to give my skin that just-spent-forty-years-in-the-sun glow.

“That’s rad,” I repeat in the mirror each morning. “That’s suuuper rad.”

I’ve been practicing my California Roll at every stop sign, even if I’m not turning right. Takes me forever to get places.

I have my brunch conversation topics all memorized—like, “How ‘bout them Santa Anas?” and “Remember when we were in high school and all the lockers were outside?” and “Mello-Roos, amirite?”

I’m bringing my winter coat in case the temperature dips below 60 at night.

I bought a flame-retardant coating to spray on my clothes before I leave the house each morning.

I’ve made a vision board consisting solely of In-N-Out secret menu items.

The 5 meets the 405 at the Y. The 5 meets the 405 at the Y. The 5 meets the 405 at the Y.

“No way,” I whisper under my breath while I drive. “Dude, that’s so gnarly.”

I’ve had the dryer on twenty-four hours a day to practice acting nonchalant during earthquakes.

I’ve hypnotized myself to forget what snow days, basements, and affordable housing are.

I’ve stocked up on books to read while I’m staying out of the water at the beach. The Pacific is just so cold, you know? And rough. And like, kind of gross?

My Rainbows haven’t left my feet in weeks.

I’m bringing an extra suitcase to fill with avocados and limes.

I’ve been practicing measuring distance in time instead of miles.

I’ve packed my brass knuckles in case I hear someone utter the words “SoCal,” “Cali,” or “The PCH.”

“It’s a dry heat,” I tell the lady at the checkout counter. “But it actually gets surprisingly cold at night.” She smiles politely. But she doesn’t understand.

I’m on my way, California. And this time, I brought my own grocery bags.