Number of times my parents footed the bill at a restaurant: 6
Number of times I did: 1
Number of bottles of wine my mom bought in anticipation of my visit: 8
Number of bottles we drank: 9
Number of items my mom bought me to get me to stop whining: 4
Number of times I snuck outside to smoke a cigarette in secret: 53
Number of times my family was completely aware of what I was doing: 53
Number of relatives’ babies I held: 2
Number of relatives’ babies that drooled, puked and/or released some other form of mucus on me: 2 (3 if you count my drunk friend Dan).
Number of times I got called a hobo because of what I was wearing: 1
Number of times I got called a train conductor because of what I was wearing: 1
Number of times my friend who witnessed both above incidents made fun of me for being a train conducting hobo: 3
Ah, yes, there’s nothing quite like going home for a visit to make you realize just how much of an illusion adulthood is.
Oh sure, I may be approaching 30 and have lived thousands of miles away from home for the past six years. But it never fails. As soon as I step off that plane, I suddenly revert back to my 16-year-old self. But honestly, it’s not my fault. I mean, how can I maintain maturity and independence when my mom makes me whatever I want for breakfast? And lunch! And dinner! And my 12-year-old brother keeps calling me a turd? And I’m having sleepovers at my best friend’s house (only instead of pigging out on Doritos and Diet Coke and calling boys on the phone, we pig out on Doritos and Bud Light and stalk boys on Facebook)?
Not to mention, I made the mistake of going to a dance fundraiser for my old high school, which sent me reeling back to my days of acne and awkwardness, especially when the formerly popular, older “kids” started talking to me. Instead of being the cool, confident, fashion-savvy writer and photographer living in Boston I fancy myself to be, I was the girl who giggled awkwardly when told by my ex-boyfriend’s best friend that my Calvin Klein dress and knit hat made me look like a hobo (speaking of which, now that I’m back in Boston and back to my old self, my response to that is, oh, and I see you still look like an asshole, Ken).
Now granted, maybe I should be ashamed, at least a little bit, of how quickly and easily I lose myself every time I go home. But I guess it just goes back to the old theory that you can’t go home again.
Because if you do, you’re sure to turn into the goober you once were.