This Is Not My Beautiful House

We’re moving in on week three of having houseguests. For a couple weeks, Geo’s brother was here staying with us and now Sanna has two friends visiting from Australia who have checked in for a week. G’day, mates. It’s fun, don’t get me wrong. Generally, I’m quite used to random people coming and going from my house at all times of day. It’s kind of like living on a Carousel. People get on, hang out for a bit, and then leave, passing the new people coming in on their way out. But if I’m really being honest, I gotta say: I’m ready to get off the ride.

I really have no idea if this is my advanced age talking, or a direct result of being surrounded by miscellaneous people constantly as of late, but I’ve been enjoying a lot of musically-backed montages of memories from when I was living alone. The sweetness of coming home to a house that looks precisely the same as when you left, the expectation of opening your front door and knowing exactly who is/is not going to be there, and the comfort of standing in your underwear in front of the fridge binge eating a brick of cheese in solitude. It feels but a dream now. You know that scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary when she’s like all depressed and drinking and singing at the top of her lungs in her pajamas?? How sad IS it that I want that?

Once upon a time when it was me and the guys living together, they went on a weeklong vacation together. I joked that, while they were gone, I would be laying around the couch in my Prom dress, drinking wine from the bottle, and watching The Notebook over and over. Oh! To have been that free! To have been that sure that I wouldn’t be disrupted!

Increasingly, I’ve been having this nagging desire to crank up some Britney and dance around while singing into a hair brush. But I have to stifle that. Much like I must stifle my urge to scream and yell and get mad when the situation comes up. Because now I can’t do those things on a whim. Someone is watching a movie. Or, the people downstairs are worried all my jumping will cave in the ceiling. Or, my shrill yelling is making me sound crazy and irrational, rather than totally justified – albeit loud. Blogger’s Non Sequitur: Just because someone is angry doesn’t mean they can’t yell. I hate when people act like they’re better at fighting just because they can keep their voice down. It’s called “Passion”, people. I must digress here.

The point is, the Grown Up train is leaving the station, and I intend to buy a ticket. Because I’ve been living with so many people for so long, I’m like this muted version of myself, I think. I don’t crank up music when I’m happy and energetic just to dance around to it, I don’t cry when I want to, I don’t just scream when I’m frustrated – which feels so incredibly good – and sheesh, I barely talk on the phone unless I can go outside. I’m typically a very loud, energetic person who laughs at the drop of a hat. Lately, though, I’m this cranky codger who likes things quiet, who didn’t even laugh at herself when she ran into a door. That’s just so not me.

I don't know, maybe I'm just suffering from major Cabin Fever. Or maybe this whole Frat Boy lifestyle ain't exactly what I thought it was. Whatever the issue is, I must remedy. Tonight, I fixed it with Happy Hours and fried appetizers. Tomorrow? Who knows? But at some point, I'm going to have figure it out for myself and take a scary step into scary Adultville. I hear it's not nearly as fun, but no one questions you when you just want to stay in to carbo-load with a loaf of bread and a good ol' fashioned book on a Kindle.

I must admit, though, I'm still torn. I came home from my 2nd Happy Hour tonight and cracked a beer with some wonderful company. I guess you choose your battles. And I'm assuming this is definitely a case of "The Grass Is Always Greener", but I'm pretty sure that doesn't mean that the grass is any less satisfying. Especially if you're old like me. We old people pretty much like anything.