Whoever Said "You Can’t Go Home Again"…
…never met me.
I couldn’t find a place before my lease ended at the end of September, so I moved in with my Mom for a week or so. Or a month. Or a year. This place is a trap.
The problem with moving in is that, in my old home, I lived in a dingy townhouse with a moderate-sized and cramped common areas. In my Mom’s house, I have my sleeping room, my changing room, my storage garage, my storage basement, and my guest room. Tina is visiting for the weekend, and in the spirit of generosity, I decided to let her stay in my changing room rather than my guest room, which, to be honest, doesn’t allow one the full range of comfort a guest should expect in another person’s home.
My best hope for getting out of here was a few days after I moved in, before my comfort items were unpacked and my Mom’s efforts to get me to stay with her by cooking nightly meals for a while took hold.
I know it’s not good for me to stay home, but it’s easy. I feel like I’m on vacation. Driving 45 min. each way to walk dogs for a few hours is a pain, but I know if I stopped it would just make it easier for me to dilly-dally. I dilly enough as it is in my life. I don’t need to dally.
One motivation for moving out is that I’m turning 30 in two months. I really don’t want to be living with my Mom when I’m 30. Arbitrary in a way, yes, but if I’m still living with my Mom in two months, I might as well quit my job and dig up a 2005 Holiday Hecht’s catalog so she can start dressing me too.
