Sunday, August 19

On Being Twenty-Something and Living On My Own

I am compelled to write this post as I sit here and do my homework.

When I got my job offer to work at my alma mater (while I was still undergrad, actually), I was overjoyed.

I had a job offer.

I have a JOB.

How lucky am I? How do I deserve this?

But as I sit here, by myself, in this lonely apartment, I wonder if my apprehension about deserving it was really apprehension about the world accepting me as an adult. It was more of "am I really going to be okay in the working world?" more than "I KNOW I don't belong here."

I really, truly, enjoy my job. It is preparing me for life. But my worries now feel more like, "Why does the adult world want me to live here, essentially by myself, alone, semi-miserable and definitely stressed by my next big adult goal--Law School." Is this the way the beginning of my adult life is supposed to be?

Sometimes Megan and I half-joke around that we wish we could be expected to achieve only two things: get married and have babies. Of course, this is nonsense. I enjoy my autonomy and think the best part about me is my brain and all of its stored knowledge. But what we really want is something to lean on, a crutch for this wobbly part of our lives. Financial security. Emotional security. Just plain old reliability in a difficult, new time. Why is it so hard to find?

I struggle knowing that I am on the right path and doing the right thing. I have so much to be thankful for. But that is not a crutch. Somehow, having almost everything I could ever want doesn't make me sure of myself or my future. It is an indicator of my past and present, but tomorrow is so finicky.

I live in a town, on a campus that I used to know in a very different way. All of my friends are gone.  The town is far from friends and family. Living on my own is funny. Somehow I can't cook the same way I did at home. The other night I tried to make guacamole but didn't realize the avocados were rock solid. Half the avocado fell in the dirty sink water next to the cutting board. When I made corn and tried to cut the kernels off, I hit the wrong side of the plate and they all fell to the ground, delightfully bouncing, mocking my mistake. The chicken I cooked was rubbery, and when I went to put black beans on it to salvage it, I realized that I didn't have a can opener. I was so, so deeply frustrated, I threw it all out after a couple of measly, miserable bites.

Why can't it just be easier? Everything.

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