I've never lived alone before.
For college, I went straight from the house where I grew up to the dorms to my sorority house and back to the house where I grew up, to live at home for two years (hey, don't judge me -- I worked for Stanford and had no rent, it was a pretty sweet deal).
And don't get me wrong; living arrangements for this past year suited me just fine. Typical group-rowhouse-with-your-friends scenario: utopia at first, tolerable next, tense at the end.
But I've realized that it's time for me to grow up. Mostly.
This means I'm still young enough to get drunk and do backflips on the metro; still immature enough to giggle at poorly veiled sexual innuendo (that's what SHE said! ...uh, I mean... what?); still innocent-hearted enough to get butterfly-inducing crushes on boys. BUT, it also means I'm grown-up enough to have a Blackberry and an intern; wise enough to know better than to trust blindly; confident enough to believe (but not to need) compliments.
Independent enough to live on my own.
The lease to my new one-bedroom starts on Wednesday, May 7th, and I am absolutely aflutter with anticipation. I'm excited to have my own space -- my own bathroom; a patio; a fridge all to myself. I can stay up late, turn in early, cook with reckless abandon, watch TV when I want, and (yes) boycott pants. I can make a mess without apology, grocery shop without labeling every garlic clove, and make dinner without worrying that one of my key ingredients has mysteriously gone missing.
And last, but certainly not least: I will never again be subjected to the abhorrent nagging vessel that is the passive-aggressive note.
Sweet mother of mercy, hallelujah.
4 years ago