Moving out and Moving on

Yesterday I kissed my parents goodbye and walked them out of my new apartment. The 400 square foot efficiency that is now my own. I watched my dad build book shelves and hang pictures all day long and my mom calm me down when Time Warner Cable couldn’t get their act together. I kissed them goodbye and shut the door to solitude. And then, I paced. 

I paced because I have never been truly alone. Because this is the first time that my parents leaving meant something more than “I’ll see you in a few weeks.” Because I could potentially lose all my clients and have no way of paying for this place. Because I had no cable or internet so there was nothing left to do but pace. I spelt in a bed that has been familiar for years. The wonderful companion that got me through many hard nights during college. It felt exactly the same, but not at all the same too. 

Moving out and moving on is really weird. There is no true emotion to it. I am happy. Happy that I have brought myself from ground zero to this in less than a year. That I have chosen the path only crazies travel and am finally seeing the end of one of the roads. 

But like any situation, this feeling of happiness is always clouded with confusion. If I was completely honest with myself, just over a year ago my future would have looked nothing like this. I was dead set on being the next big wig reporter. I was working 60 hours a week for a boss that called me Bailey. And I was dreaming of the day I could write a blog about moving in with a guy who wore running shorts as pants and underwear. Yes, as he was plotting the best way to escape my grasp on his overly priced bike I was drafting a story about how I would never be that girl who fell in love and finally did.

That is the funny thing about being 20-something’s. We have no freaking clue. We think we know everything, and how everything will turn out, always. When in reality we know not a single thing. We take on roles of adults, like renting apartments and paying utilities, but we move in with a full set of wine, champaign, and margarita glasses yet lack a single drinking glass. We are hot messes, and it is a beautiful thing. 

Last night my sister came over. The girl I have forever dreamed of being. I looked at her life and looked at mine. She has a kid and a real job, she has a life and real responsibilities. But for a moment I thought that maybe she would want what I have too. That maybe we aren’t as different as our seven year age gap.

And I made dinner with a man who wears real pants. We laugh and we dance (when he forces me). In him I see a chance to be something more than the girl who fell in love with the fake. I see the difference in trying to be something you are not, and owning everything you ever were. 

One day all of this might be gone. Maybe I will live in a house so large it needs an intercom system, or maybe I will forever be deemed to one room apartments. Either way, I am learning. We are all learning. You can either live the life or you can give it up.