December 2007

Is it just me?

Is it just me or is living with you parents past the age of 21 a major social faux-pas? Every time I let it slip that I currently live with my parents I am met with a bewildered look and an uncomfortable smile. You'd think I had just owned up to hosting tea parties for my stuffed animals. And it's not like I have never ventured out on my own. In fact, I only recently returned as a favour to my parents. Honestly! What started out as a two-month house-sitting stint has become an open-ended tenancy agreement. The best part being its rent free and comes with laundry and catering services. But after countless quizzical looks, I have to ask the question, what is so bizarre about living at home as a twenty-something?

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I have to admit that I am one of the few people I know who still live at home- and one of the oldest. And on some level, I am a little embarrassed by that. I don't usually tell people who I live with unless it's absolutely necessary. I mean, it doesn't paint me in the best light with someone I have just met; men in particular. For some reason they seem to find this a turn-off. I guess it has something to do with the possibility of a romantic rendezvous culminating in a morning coffee with my Dad (which by the way is scary enough for those who haven't spent the night snuggled up to me).

But on flip side, I am also pretty chuffed with my situation. I have a lot more financial freedom than most people I know, and have great company on my nights in. In fact, living with you parents as an adult is nothing like living with them as a teenager. There are no curfews, no groundings and no enforced chores (who knew you would actually prefer a clean room as an adult?).

So why do people think they need to feel sorry for me? Do they think my living arrangements are because I have no other choice? Surely I would only live at home if I was some unemployed, socially-retarded, Daddy's-girl? I mean honestly, who would want to live in an air-conditioned palace for free when they could manage on their own in a one-bedder with chipped paint and limited hot water?

And that's when I had an epiphany. I started to wonder if maybe people are envious of my living situation. Of course I'm not so naïve to think that everyone is jealous, but surely some are. Let's look at the facts; I save tons of money, eat well, and can still walk around carefree in my grungy undies without repercussions (trust me, some flatmates just do not approve of this). Having moved from the inner city to the suburbs, I'm no longer woken at 3:00a.m. by drunken yahoos, have ample parking space and can enjoy a quiet night on the balcony without inhaling exhaust fumes. I have farewelled the politics of share-housing, reunited with my childhood pets and now have a second wardrobe to raid whenever the mood strikes. But best of all, I no longer have weekly arguments with my flatmates about missing items, and their use of my things without permission. After all, what's family without a little sharing?

Now if only I could find where Mum stashes her diamonds ...

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Lara Pinto e lkpinto@gmail.com