10/4/2006: Crossroads

Umm. I'm back. Dallas is too weird not to talk about. Almost more entertaining than three months checking out the western U.S. So here's the deal: I'm living back at home (the home I grew up in) with my parents and my husband. You can speculate all you want about why. My extended family members love to play this game. The main point to focus on is that I'm 31 back at home. In Texas. At home. Same room and all.

Since living here, I find myself reverting to childhood monosymbolic talk. Like when I'm asked how my day is, I answer "fine." Or when I'm asked what I had for lunch, I say "Clif" (short for Clif bar). Or when asked how I did on a test (yeah, I'm back in school to boot), I mention "groovy." What's the deal here? Haven't post-pubescent years arisen a more loquacious tongue?

Before moving in with the parents, when Mac and I were in the staging area in Galveston, Texas, I read an article from a girl my age who also recently moved back with her parents. Things I gleaned from her monologue: She mentally transposed to childhood days. Meanwhile, her parents assumed her financial burdens. Which is weird, because this young woman had money of her own. And let me be clear that she, like I, love her parents. But there's something debilitating about moving back in with your parents at a certain age. And I've found that that age at the very least is 31.

Straight out of college, you still depend on your parents for a great deal - whether it be money, advice, or a soft pad to land on. So moving back during these early post-baccalaureate years doesn't count.

But at around 23-26, you start finding yourself. You get your first job; then your second job. You start to understand the meaning of STDs and SUVs. Your opinions start cart wheeling over previous thoughts. Psychologists call this period the Early Adulthood Years, when you replace the years molded by your parents into new ones shaped by outside influences. These are the years you're on your way to becoming you.

Soon after, around age 30, you reach the Middle-Adulthood Years, when you've evolved into a self-sustaining, independent free body. While you still heed your parents opinions, they don't dictate your decisions. Which is why moving back in with your parents during this stage retards your mental drive. Not to mention the sex one.

Which brings me to the present - sitting on my annie-anne-cum-leopard-print bed. The bedspread has changed along with my childhood decorations. The Robert Smith and Morissey posters have been removed, replaced with animal prints (my mom has a thing for wildlife) and a spit-free wall. The sea shells which kept their kelp-like smell gave way to miniature candles and picture albums. And the bean-bag chair I used to fall into after hours at the mall have been taken over by a rocking chair and Pottery Barn floor lamp. But one thing has kept its stead - albeit a little more weathered and leathery - me. And if I get thrown out before that ugly rocker, I swear I'll yell and pout and beat my fists until I get my way.

Middle-Adulthood, you'll just have to wait a little longer.