As if it weren't bad enough that I am in my thirties and still stuffed into my childhood bedroom, I also have the distinct honor of being trapped in the same home as my parents AND my grandmother. It all happened by accident. I'm not one of those kids who never grew up and sits home playing video games and bouncing from minimum wage job to job while eating through my family's food. I came home after a bad break up and had planned to stay only a few months. That was 6 years and a terminal illness ago.
Soon after I arrived in my 1992 Oldsmobile Cutlass, with rust spots resembling bullet holes in the side and my entire life shoved into the trunk and backseat, I announced to mom and dad that this was a temporary visit. They took pity on me and let me cry on the couch in my sweatpants for the first few weeks while I shed the hurt from losing a boyfriend (to a girl who I thought was a friend) and a job (to government cut backs). In my self absorbed woe I was actually comforted by the thought of being home. The room I grew up in and shared for most of my life with my brother, my polar opposite in every way, seemed a lot smaller now that I returned with a quarter century of clothes, knickknacks, books, and whatever else I could move out of my condo alone in the rain because I was too distraught and embarrassed to ask anyone to help. The boxes and piles of stuff fit about as well in the house as it had in my old car. Everything was one big jumbled mess... and that's sort of the way it has stayed. Even 6 years later some of those boxes remain unpacked as I still feel like a guest. Part of my subconscious must think (hope) that this is still temporary and I am on my way to bigger and better things... or at least bigger than 10'x12'.
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