Since I'm an unmarried childless person I have a split personality when it comes to "home". I consider my folks' place in Southern California to be home as well as my own freshly minted, sparsely decorated, flourishing daily life in Manhattan. While perhaps confusing to some, this fact doesn't bother me. Until I have more roots in New York and fewer things left in my old bedroom, it will feel weird to call this place "my parents' house" (even though I do it sometimes). But I digress...
Being home means many things. It means that I get to see just how old my beloved dog is getting. He's white in certain places, has less energy (the only plus, really, since he has been a bumbling maniac since we got him at 9 1/2 wks of age) and is rounder in the midsection. Being home also means I have no earthly clue where the potato peeler is any more, I don't rush to answer the phone when it rings (despite the obvious knee jerk reaction), and as much as I don't want to admit it -- none of the mail is ever for me. I LOVE, LOVE getting mail. What am I even saying though? None of the mail at my apartment in NY is ever for me unless it is a bill or a Netflix movie. Beggars can't be choosers.
Homecomings also mean I am once again thwarted into the "daughter" role. It is occuring to me more and more with each trip west how used to relying on, doing for, and only answering to myself I am. I go to work, come home, go to a job, cook meals, pay bills, install AC's, kill bugs, fix broken things, change light bulbs, hire movers, sign leases, and other grown up people things without the help of anyone (unless that help comes via phone as my poor father found out when I had a meltdown -- pun most certainly intended -- while attempting to install said AC for the first time last June). Suffice to say I feel liberated and frustrated by my truly single life in equal parts, depending on what mood I am in that day. And suffice to say that when I come home and am once again the little girl in the eyes of an adoring, well-meaning parent, I ruffle. Just a bit. How can I not? So I do my best to smile, embrace the role, all the while thinking, "I got it covered. I'm just fine."
I am a late twenties Southern Californian who, like so many others, gave up normal sized living spaces, driving, and sometimes food when I moved to NYC in the Fall of 2007 to pursue my "dream career." I live among books, out of suitcases, and in awe of the ways my life has changed over the past three years. And I do wear flip flops down Lexington Ave. E-mail me at flipflopsonlex [at] gmail [dot] com.