I've heard the phrase, "Home is where the heart is." That's mostly true, I guess, but I'm a firm believer that home is where my parents are. And where the dog is. And where, if I want, I can eat an egg sandwich at 11 p.m., and mom will make it. It's also where I go to pretend real life is fake. And where I go to forget I have responsibilities. Like a job, cats to feed, air to breathe.
That's what home has always been to me. My safe place. Home has never been where I live. The place where my bed belongs, where The Cats sleep, and where I blow dry my hair every morning. That's just where I live. The place I have to regularly clean and pay for.
Home is parents. Safety. DVR.
So it's sort of harsh to suddenly realize I'm an adult. That home is no longer that place because I have to have my own home. I have to be my own security. I can't escape reality for even a weekend to eat egg sandwiches and walk the dog, because no matter how hard I try, I'm not 16. I have to be 25. All the time.
Whose idea was that? And may I please have a word?
I've been doing my best to play adult for the weekend. To pretend where I live is home. It was mildly successful, and I can say now, at 10 p.m., that I did a good job. So far. I returned movies to the video store, books to the library. I made chili, in a brand new, giant crock pot. I made it myself, with my own ingredients, because I didn't need anyone to tell me how anymore.
My car got an oil change and a wash, and I went for a seven-and-a-half mile run, because I could. And because I wanted to. Because I'm an adult. I relaxed on the couch, read my book, realized that maybe this is home. And that's kind of fun.
Maybe I can be a grownup and make my own egg sandwiches. But that doesn't mean I want to.