I can drink legally, and I'm just not interested. It's funny, whenever I come home, I feel like I climb into a cocoon and die: I drink wine with my mom and fall asleep at 11:30, I sleep in until 1:00 in the afternoon, I wear my brother's sweatshirt the entire time. I've said this before and I'll say it again: coming home, leaving New York City, always makes me feel like my real life doesn't exist. Because my real life is in New York City, and coming home is merely for family engagements and a small hand-full of friends who I can meet up with. But seriously, let's be honest: most of my high school friends, I'd be happier and more able to meet up with them in New York than in Lower Merion.
It's weird for me now then to look at my brother and see what he is. He's like me, what I used to be in high school. He drives around aimlessly trying to figure out what other people are doing, trying to get some beer, trying to juggle a million friends and their plans so that he doesn't have to stay home and do nothing. I was just like that, and it was so much fun. And it was here, in this house, in that car, in this community. And I just don't care for it anymore: I love the past, but I've moved so far beyond it. I've grown up, turned 21, built a new home in New York and actually miss my bed there when I'm here. I miss my apartment and my roommate and my noisy neighborhood there when I'm here.
Each time I come back it gets easier to be here, and more enjoyable to see my mom and to hang out with David. And yet each time I come, it also looses its significance. My Philadelphia home has become more of the place I go to visit people I love than the homebase I return to. And that's hard to grapple with, but I guess that's life.
posted by iliza @ 11:40 PM
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