Letters To My Little Brother: Misadventures In Growing Older (8 page)

Love,

-Big Boy

CHAPTER Nine:

How to survive living at home

Dear Squirrel,

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself moving home with my parents after college. And even in those wildest dreams I never once expected that I’d stay at home for over a year. I thought that kind of “relying on your parents for your daily bread” spiel was for the Norman Bates’s of the world, for the over-loved kids whose mothers cut the crusts off all their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I’d always felt it’d be an indignity if I returned to my childhood abode. I felt like I was overqualified for it. I thought I was a young hotshot with tons of skill and the resumé to find a job, wealth, and fame at the snap of my fingers. Our sister lived at home for two years after college and I swore up and down that I never wanted to be like that. I wanted independence. I wanted to wag my middle finger at the world and gloat about how I wasn’t one of those pathetic little peons forced to act like oversized children at their parents’ dinner tables. I love Will Ferrell, but
Step Brothers
was only funny when I didn’t actually empathize with it.

And then I moved home. I was pretty depressed at first. I was consciously giving up my independent, employed life to do, well, I had no idea what I was going to do. I was worried I’d start fighting with Dad just like I had in high school and college. With us, a simple disagreement over an unwashed pan in the sink would rapidly escalate into something about manhood, disappointment, and responsibility. I also worried I’d have no social life. Mom’s best talent (aside from making waffles) is wheedling personal details out of me, so I feared she’d be watching over my shoulder.

Most of all I feared I was wasting the talent I’d worked so hard to validate in my previous 23 years.

Who moves home like that? What kind of person willingly forces this upon themselves? Someone trying to save money? Someone taking care of their ailing parents? Hell, Peter Parker didn’t move back in with Aunt Mae after she got attacked by the Green Goblin. (Don’t fact check me on that…) He loved her and all, but he still had his own space, no matter how crummy it was. But me? No. I was at home with good ol’ Mom and Dad.

The first thing I tried to establish after I moved home was mental boundaries. I didn’t want to necessarily communicate them to anyone, but I felt the need to erect barriers for my own sanity. Otherwise the throes of inadequacy and low self-esteem would start to seep in and ooze through my veins with every bleating beat of my heart. See, living at home is kind of like hanging out with your old high school friends after college and feeling like you’ve regressed into a high school version of yourself. Maybe you redeveloped the goofy mannerisms you tried to grow out of during college. Maybe you acted like you still had the maturity of a 16-year-old with sweeping, emo hair. Well that’s how I felt about being back home…but a million times worse. Everywhere I looked I saw memories from a past life: the life-size Napoleon Dynamite poster by my door (still cool), the dark blue walls of my bedroom (not as cool now), the 1960s picture book of Davy Crockett on my dresser (not sure that was ever cool). It was hard not to feel like I’d taken a step backwards. I still believe I did the right thing by quitting my job and leaving California but still I struggled with being surrounded by the oh-so-many manifestations of my childhood. How does one become an adult when living like a kid?

Unfortunately, parents have a way of scaling these boundaries and throwing your emotional guardians from the parapets. They lure you in by acting really fun and cool. I started taking up golf with Dad, for example, which is quite possibly the only thing more remote to me than dropping ecstasy, wearing a striped, neon shirt, and raving at a Kesha concert (and no, I won’t dignify her name with a dollar sign). I really enjoyed going outside, bonding with him, and whacking at shit with a club, but I also felt uncomfortably out of place. It was mostly because I’m 24 and should be in an office at 3pm on a weekday instead of on the links, but also because I worried that someone at the country club would spot my big, Slavic schnoz and demand to see my WASP Card before throwing me out. That or maybe they’d figure out that I continue to sneak onto the course without paying for a round…

Mom — or as Dad likes to say, “my twin” — was the wild card. I began inviting her to all my social events because she acted so cool. (Does that make me Buster from
Arrested Development
? I won’t dignify that with a yes.) She met my friends, conversing with them like a cool 20-something might. She started playing video games with us, giving me a run for my untainted title belt in Super Mario Tennis. She even learned the wonderful new abbreviation FOMO (fear of missing out) and has abused it ever since, transforming it into FOGO, the fear of going out, in order to explain our (apparently hereditary) anxiety of prolonged social situations.

But moms can only toe the line between friend and parent for so long. About three weeks after my return, she and I were sitting in the living room, casually chatting about life, my siblings, and my romantic affairs, when she felt the need to give me “the talk.” No, not the one on the birds and the bees. Dad mucked that one up years ago. The details are still sketchy slash permanently erased from my memory, but I do remember that he somehow related masturbation to lawn mowing. Come to think of it, I’d kind of like to know how he pulled that off. I feel like lawn mowing would be a better analogy for pubic hair. No, that’d be trimming bushes. Maybe lawn mowing was a good call on his part.

But no, this time Mom spoke about something more intimately awkward: (the shortcomings of) birth control.

“Matt,” she prefaced, “I feel it’s my job as both a mother and a woman to talk to you about birth control.”

That’s a bad way to begin any conversation with a parent. It means that not only did Mom think about and actively plan her speech, but she also wouldn’t be dissuaded out of it. Especially not for my lack of trying.

“Mom,” I sputtered, “we really don’t need to—”

“I don’t need to hear about your sexual behavior, Matt, but I really need to make sure you know that the pill or an IUD doesn’t always work. One of our neighbors got pregnant because she was taking antibiotics while on the pill and POP!” she said, snapping her fingers to indicate the speedy-quick danger of conception, “— they had another kid on the way.”

“I know! Really, I do!”

We’ve all heard stories about unplanned pregnancies. But let me be honest here: I didn’t need a lecture on birth control because I wasn’t having sex at that time. It’s a lot like going to the doctor and they ask if you if you’d like an STD test even though you know you haven’t had any sexual contact in the last three, err, six , err, couple of months. I usually just say yes cause my paranoia defies all logic, convincing me that I’ve gotten herpes or genital warts off a toilet seat.

“Thanks,” I said, “but we really don’t need to have this talk.”

“I gave this same talk to your sister when she was 16 and I want to make sure I give it to you now,” she replied.

That brought 2 immediate thoughts to my head:

1) Did my sister need this talk when she was 16? OH MY GOD why would you tell me that!?

2) Why did you wait until so late into my 24
th
year before having this discussion with me then?? I know I’m a late bloomer and all, but…really? REALLY??

So I played the only card I could:

“Mom! My girlfriend and I aren’t having sex, alright? We’re kind of like friends who... Well, we’re more than friends. We’re dating. But we’re not having sex cause she… And cause I resp—… We’re just not having sex. It’s not an issue, okay?”

“So you think you’re never going to have sex? You’re never going to need to hear this?”

Well, considering how often/rarely I have been able to con a woman into physical (let alone intimate) contact with me, I’ll take my chances.

“You’re right. Never mind. Thank you for the talk. Point taken,” I acquiesced.

“And you should always remember to wear a condom just in case. It’s the most surefire way to prevent STDs and pregnancy.”

Yup. She’s right. And while I absolutely, 100% support birth control and condoms, it’s incredibly disheartening when you realize how hard it is to find a ladyfriend and, on top of that, your mother demands you add another ‘barrier’ to the equation. I hope I don’t sound like I’m complaining. I’m just saying I seriously think I’ll need a support group if Mom mentions dental dams to me over dinner.

I plowed through the next few months of living at home nonetheless. Mom never brought up my sex life again, nor did I mention it to her. It’s not like I had anything to mention anyways. It’s pretty difficult to seduce someone with the line, “Yeah, let’s go back to my room. It’s at my parents’ house. My mom might bake us cookies if we ask politely. Oh and you’ll have to keep your voice down. They go to sleep at like 9pm because they’re now official members of the AARP.”

I took up a few more activities to avoid my parents as much as possible. After the 8
th
  discussion with Dad about why, much to his dismay, I didn’t aspire to be a teacher at a boarding school, I latched onto anything that may provide a sweet few hours of respite. One of those things was Ultimate Frisbee.

Before I begin, let me state something for the record: I can’t stand that fucking game. It’s fun to play if you’ve got a Frisbee and a few friends, but the kids who take it seriously are amongst the biggest tools I’ve ever met. “It’s a disc, not a Frisbee!” they say. “You wanna run hor or vert?” they ask. Does it look like I give a shit? Why can’t we just run around like pickup basketball? I’ve played basketball in like five different countries and never once did I have an argument about what type of offense we need to run.

Plus Ultimate isn’t even a real sport! Yes, you run around and throw and catch and whatnot, but it’s not like you see it in the Olympics or anything. (And that’s saying something because the Olympics still have bizarre sports like race walking.) Ultimate isn’t even a real, varsity sport at any institution of higher learning, except maybe some small liberal arts college where kids major in “Marijuana Studies, with a specialty in hacky sack” or “Drawing, Painting, and Psychotropic Drugs.” Hell, even Quidditch is a more legitimate athletic pursuit, if only because it requires more skill to run with a broom between your legs. (And because it involves Harry Potter. Go Chudley Cannons!) Can you imagine if there was a Sorting Hat for freshman athletes in high school? “You’re not big enough for football, tall enough for basketball, swift enough for soccer, wannabe-redneck enough for baseball, ugly enough for wrestling, or limber enough for the triple jump. Can you at least photograph the teams like annoying little Colin Creevey? No? Shit…I guess it’s Frisbee for you then!” Ultimate is the Island of Misfit Toys of the sporting world.

I also say this because I sucked at Ultimate. I’m not the worst guy you’ve ever seen on the field, but for a guy as tall and thin as me you’d be surprised how much of a lazy fatass I am. It only took about five minutes of playing to realize I have the body of a jaundiced geriatric man in desperate need of an oxygen tank and a spare pair of Oscar Pistorious’ metal legs. Here’s a list of ailments from my 3-hour game of Frisbee:

• I puked up my bowl of Lucky Charms on the side of the field. They don’t taste nearly as magically delicious when exiting your body;
  
• I started seeing spots because I probably got a concussion from falling down one/two/eight or nine times;
  
• My calves felt like they’ve been dried and stripped into jerky;
  
• I couldn’t bend down to pick up the newspaper cause my hamstrings are tighter than a hipster’s skinny jeans;
  
• I couldn’t stand up from a sitting position because my quads were failing faster than you in your neuroscience class [Author’s Note: buuuuuuuuurn!];
  
• And I couldn’t breathe because my lungs apparently shrank to the size of grapes after having not been used strenuously in the last few months/years.
  

How depressing is that, man? Even when I push my comfort zone to find some fun, I discover the least enjoyable game of all time. Why didn’t I take up Frisbee golf instead? It seems like it requires way less effort and way more skill, which therefore translates to way more fun. Plus the guys who play it look like hippies and I think I could vibe with that. I’m down with people who wear t-shirts with ironic and/or humorous statements. I dig people who wear socks above their ankles. I also love anyone that prefers walking to running.

I therefore tried to uncover different avenues for inventing a social life. My forays into rock climbing and Krav Maga didn’t quite produce positive results. Rock climbing required persistence and strength, which are not in my Top 15 virtues, and Krav Maga required $90 per month. Seeing as I’ve literally had to cut McDonald’s out of my diet for being too expensive, you can see why Krav Maga was a little out of my price range.

I ended up settling on writing as my escape of choice. It provided all the fantasy and wonderment that I wanted without the effort of actual physical activity. Plus I can enjoy all the highs and lows of sports in my mind without ever having to play them. I began posting on my blog about every other day and, soon enough, I started getting traffic. I was pretty ecstatic when I hit 120 visitors in one day. I thought I was hot shit. I ordered myself an ice cream cone at Ben & Jerry’s — much like a big spender would, I imagined — and kicked my feet up on a table and stared up at the sun and shouted, “Come at me, bro! Give me a freckle! I dare you! I double doggy dare you!” I showed the sun who was boss. I eventually got up to 7,000 visitors in one month. I say that not to brag, but to tell you just how insecure I am that I needed 7,000 unknown people to read my blog in order to make me feel loved. And loved I felt. I dreamt that I would be given the opportunity to be on the Kiss Cam at a hockey game just so I could blow kisses to the entire arena and thank them for their kind and generous support of my amateur writing career.