Readers, you have been unaware of some momentous news: from May 31, 2010 through June 4, 2010, both Jeremy and I are living with our parents.
Let’s review some of the facts: Jeremy is 28, I am 31 and we are both living in our parent’s houses.
I should be pouting, but I am gleeful for two reasons. First, Jeremy has been making fun of me for the entire 2 months I have been living at home. The comments are varied and some are more witty than others, but they are constant and he has received much joy in their delivery. Now he is a card carrying member of the parentaly housed club. Second, I am moving out on Friday. That’s tomorrow morning. I can not only see a light at the end of the tunnel, I am being blinded by the light that I have been denied for so long.
Having the option to live at home, is great. I didn’t want to renew a lease since I knew I was moving in a couple months and my mom was gracious enough to open her doors to me. I am so thankful. She has had to put up with my lifestyle and I can only imagine how it has impacted her quietness and daily routine, although not as much as it would have if Lindsey Lohan were to move in with her – which I remind her. I also had to accept some changes: the whole flavored coffee thing threw me for a loop (I was distrustful of the machine for over a week and switched over to tea while at home in an effort to avoid hazelnut altogether). I also am used to being asked, “who are you texting?” every time I pick up my phone in her presence.
But living at home when you’re not lamenting an incoming pimple whilst conference calling your two best friends about what one overheard in study hall, is a bit of a tough transition. My brother, who lives with his European girlfriend’s parents, tells me I’m being really Euro by living at home. The spin did give me a quick come back to some of Jeremy’s jokes, but the truth is, I’m dying for my own space, as I’m sure my mom is.
There is something immensely humbling about living at home once you’re past the acceptable age – which I so clearly am. My mother offers to fold my laundry, to be nice, and I feel like the world’s most incompetent loser. She makes me a sandwich for lunch, and I feel guilty. I feel like one step up from Britney Spears under her father’s concervatorship. I feel frozen in time: here as an adult, but defined by the teenager who still haunts the house in cringe inducing photographs. The Delta Spirit lyric “Your family just knows half of where you’ve been” echos over and over in my head.
I look forward to coming home for visits. I look forward to my mom coming to visit me in my own place. And I look forward to the next five weeks of being able to make comments about Jeremy living with his parents from the safely of my own place.