Adulthood

In just ten days, I will turn 32 years young.

I don't have a problem with getting older--I'm fairly young at heart, I enjoy life, and feel that my thirties have, thus far, been way better than my twenties. I don't mind the responsibilities of adulthood (though it does pain me to write that rent check each month).

The best part of being an adult? Taking care of myself. I have my own home, where I am the master. (Well, the cats really run the place, but that's another story for another blog post.) But in all seriousness, any messes in my apartment are my own. I have a system in place. I know where everything is (except, sometimes, my glasses, cell phone, keys...). I don't answer to anyone.

A week ago, as another job I'd interviewed for hired someone else, and I got notification of my phone interview with EDD, my dad quietly said to me, "I think, if you don't have a job by the end of August, you should move back in with Mom and  I."

I love my parents--anyone who follows this blog knows that they are more than just parental units--they're my friends. I have no problem coming up here to visit for extended lengths of time, and, indeed, often spend a good portion of my summer vacations with them.

But living with them is hard. It was hard when I left Chico and moved home. It was harder still when I returned from England to live with them again. But now I've been truly on my own as an adult for four years...moving home now would be incredibly difficult.

When Dad made his suggestion, I just sort of nodded and thought, "I'll find a job--any job." And since then, I've kept quiet about my reasons for not wanting to move home. But it all came out tonight, with a few simple words.

I've been home all day. I went for a run this morning, but I've also spent some time on my butt. And I have snacked a little...because unlike my home, the kitchen here is stocked with snack stuff. Chex mix, chips, trail mix, Weight Watchers cookies...all sorts of stuff I just don't bring home to my apartment. It's easy to mindlessly eat if it's around.

When I wandered into the kitchen this evening to prepare a simple dinner (beans, a little cheese, tortilla, which is actually Gershom-approved), Dad said, "Are you sticking to your program?"

I saw red.

"Yes. Are you?"

For a few minutes, I thumped around the kitchen, fuming. I have worked my butt off. I have lost 65 pounds. I eat much better than my parents. This is why I don't want to move home.

Dad sensed my anger and quickly apologized. He acknowledged that it's none of his business, and that I really am doing very well. He just wants me to continue to do well, and I get that.

I accepted his apology, but let him know, gently, that this is one reason I'd rather tough it out on $1,800 a month of unemployment, rather than move back in. Lincoln is not my home, and it's so far from everything I want to be near. The nearest 24 Hour Fitness club is a 20-minute drive away, through construction traffic on I-80 and the craziness that is Roseville.

When I'm here, I only have one really good running route--the uphills in this neighborhood kill me. Back home, I have enough variety and flat surface to vary my runs to keep from getting bored. My gym is two blocks away. I have privacy and space. My fridge and pantry are orderly and catered to my needs. I don't have to fight for computer time. No one cares if I leave my purse in the kitchen and my shoes by the front door. If I leave my water glass by the sink with a straw in it, it will still be there in a few hours when I go back for more water. And while my neighbors are sometimes noisy and my washing machine works about half the time...I love my home. It's my home.

It all sounds so little, so petty--maybe even childish. But when you're ten days shy of 32, and so fiercly protective of your independence and autonomy, all of these little things add up to a very big, wailing, "I CAN'T DO IT!!!"

Tonight, I've been feeling stir-crazy. I think it's time to head back to my little home tomorrow, where life is routine, and ordered just as I like it.