…and it hasn’t really sunk in yet. Sure, I gave up my apartment and put all of my stuff in a storage unit, but I’ve been staying at my parents’ house in San Diego and it feels like any other visit. I keep reminding myself I’m not going back – my time in San Francisco really is over.
It’s always kind of weird readjusting to living with my parents, even if it’s only for a couple of weeks. They don’t have any unreasonable expectations or require me to obey a curfew (not that I’ve been out late enough to test my limits). Their schedule isn’t that far off from mine, and they’ve been really cool about my piles of clothes and camping gear complicating the walk through their office/guest bedroom. And they’re total foodies, so eating well is a definite plus.
I think what feels so strange is going back to the role of the kid. I was a pretty-much-almost-adult at my apartment in San Francisco, paying my own bills and eating/sleeping/working/blowing out my speakers whenever I wanted to, and here it feels a little like being a teenager again. When I got sick this week (thank you, Tobin, for sharing your gross dorm germs), my mom was grabbing me soup and blankets. When we go shopping, my debit card’s usually not charged. I can eat everything in sight and the fridge magically restocks itself. I get to whine about being bored and watch them roll their eyes at me.
It’s great, but it’s weird. And as easy as it is to play teenager and let my parents take care of me, I think I’m ready to be on the road again.