Home and deranged
True Confessions: I moved back in with my mom
I never really planned to move back to Houston, and I definitely didn’t envision making my triumphant return under my current circumstances. Like many residents, I just sort of ended up here.
I graduated from the University of Missouri in May and got laid off not once, but twice before November rolled around and the weather turned a mite more pleasant.
Being a glass-half-full sort of girl, I prefer to think of my post-grad timeline as an inspirational tale of finding two jobs in this economy, rather than the tired story of losing them.
My most recent layoff, from the marketing department of a luxury resort, was a bit easier to take than the first. It was sweet being able to clear out my personal effects, move my car to valet and check in as a guest. Thus are the perks of including in your dating pool an oil-and-gas guy who happened to be at the resort on a business retreat.
There is no cure for a layoff-low like room service and free drinks on your former employer.
My circumstances now are these: I’m young, single, geographically desirable (an Inner Loop girl), sometimes employed and an enthusiastic night owl.
I couldn’t ask for much more, except instead of bunking up in a trendy Midtown high-rise, I spend my nights in my childhood trundle bed in my mother’s house.
At first I was embarrassed by this sad fact, and hesitated to relate how I fought for the sink each morning with my 13-year-old sister. But I slowly learned that there’s a whole generation of recent grads also retreating at two and three in the morning to their childhood bedrooms.
We talk about our rough days at the office (even if we’re part-time), mingle during happy hour and order bottle service. Then, we cab it home to our parents’ houses.
If we’re lucky, we might have our own garage apartment.
God forbid we meet someone; I’ve had enough awkward breakfast table moments this summer alone to last me a lifetime.
One of my most memorable and mortifying moments of the summer came when my friend and I convinced her father to drop us off at Vintage Lounge after we had had a few glasses of wine and didn't want to risk a DUI. We stepped out of his Benz, dressed to the nines, only to be greeted by the bouncer’s incredulous stare.
“Is that your dad?”
I could practically read my friend’s thoughts as they scrolled marquee-style across her face. Should we say he’s our driver? The age difference and suspiciously similar bone structure would have given us away.
We quickly confirmed his suspicions and strutted as confidently as we could into the recesses of the bar… shots.
As inconvenient as our living situations may occasionally be, the perks far outweigh the cons. For now, I’ll keep strewing toothbrushes around midtown and collecting high-rise garage codes like business cards.
We’ll launch a new breed of Yuppie: the Young, Uninsured and Parentally Dependent.