DREW SHANNON FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL
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Four years can be a long time. Think of the difference, for example, between a once-bright-eyed, innocent 10-year-old and an opinionated, moody ninth grader. Quite the transformation when you consider the years involved.
So imagine my state of mind when I returned to my East Coast hometown after four glorious, unmonitored years of undergraduate liberty. When I first got home, I was overjoyed: It had been months since I'd been back for a visit and years since I'd put my bags down for any length of time. I got home in August, quickly taking advantage of the perks of living at your parents' (free rent and food) and the benefits of living in a very familiar city. My friends were also home for the summer and I was enjoying the unspoiled time with my parents that rarely occurs when you grow up with older siblings. This was going to be great, I told myself. The prospect of living at home was looking peachy.
Then came my first reality check. "Katie-Boo …" I heard my mother's voice float up from the bottom of the stairs one afternoon, using my once-endearing nickname that now meant I had done something wrong. I looked around – there were no traces of tracked mud, no makeup smudges on the bathroom sink, no coffee mugs carried upstairs. I looked at the dog, sitting patiently in the doorway of my bedroom. The dog. Right. Two-year-old Sophie had a strict ground-floor-only rule, enforced by a baby gate in the doorway of the main hall. I must have left the gate wide open, allowing our big, dirty Bernese to wander up and soil the carpets. Whoops.
Soon, reminders of why I had gone away in the first place began to pop up. Every "adult" I knew and ran into wanted to hear all about my plans for the future, while everyone else my age seemed to already have one. I, on the other hand, was still unemployed. Getting any sort of job in the little city that raised me was challenging, let alone one that was in any way related to my degree. (Once again, I was kicking myself for having chosen to study English instead of something that invited more employment opportunities).
I began spending hours in coffee shops, insatiably people-watching and wondering what all these other caffeine slaves did for a living. Did they all have jobs? Or were they just like me – creating and re-creating submissions of their freelance work in hopes of obtaining steady work with relatively steady hours. I was so lost. I had been home just over a month and already felt like I was reverting into the loose-cannon teenager that had so eagerly left home at 17.
When I voiced my fears, it seemed everyone had the same kind-but-unhelpful reassurance. "Don't worry, you'll figure it out," were the breezy responses of most of the successful Gen Xers and baby boomers. Their oh-so-casual assurances did little to pacify my anxiety.
One normal, jobless day in the middle of the week, however, an encounter with a woman I once worked with helped the thick cloud of pessimism start to lift. I went into a café and spotted her working at the till – a woman I had laboured with in the B.C. bush. She was a few years older than me, as well as witty and self-assured. We chatted briefly about our lives, current projects, her recent move. I thanked her for my coffee and settled in at a table in the back corner of the café.
I watched her for a little bit, trying to place exactly why I admired her so much. She had been out of school more years than I and didn't seem fussed about her lack of a 9-to-5 with steady hours. Spending her days making espresso and sandwiches, she just looked … comfortable. I realized she was doing exactly what every feel-good film, self-help book and overused cliché about happiness tries to drill into our heads: She was enjoying the present and the life she was living, something I had forgotten how to do as soon as I arrived home.
It occurred to me that maybe "growing up" was a distinctly relative term and not meant to be approached as a checklist. Instead of fearfully painting the future a bleak grey with thoughts of the scary (not to mention steep) mountain into the professional world, perhaps I should interpret my current position as a temporary sort of freedom. Freedom to be at an age where sitting on the kitchen counter is still the preferred place to eat your dinner while you think about the women who spend eight hours a day wearing pencil skirts. You can't possibly sit comfortably all day in such a rigid piece of clothing.
When I left the coffee shop, I was still unemployed, still broke and still a permanent resident of my folks' house. I left this time, however, feeling a little more … comfortable.