Gandhi's Guide to Getting By

chapter nineteen

Here's the thing about still living at home when you're twenty-four. If you have the break-down you've been meaning to have, if you burst into tears because it's the only way to let the frustration out, if you do anything other than smile and pretend everything is great... you are taking a big risk. A risk people living alone never have to think about.

The risk?

Your parents might become concerned. Or worse, they might decide to pry into your life because privacy isn't encoded into their DNA. They don't get that all the articles on "helicopter parenting" are using the two of them as case studies. They read the articles about parents X and Y and they say, with straight faces, "Can you imagine the poor kids who have those types of parents" and it's all you can do not to scream, Yeah, actually I can.

I don't have to use my imagination to know how my helicopter-in-denial Mom and Dad would react to my walking in with a tear stained face. They'd look at each other horrified, then race in different directions, Mom for the dust cloth, Dad for the door to head off some emergency at the office. He wouldn't, however, actually make it past the front door because Mom would throw him one of her you-leave-me-alone-to-handle-our-obviously-psychologically-disturbed-daughter-alone-and-I'm-sending-you-to-live-with-my-mother look. So Mom would get the dust cloth and Dad would get his imaginary can of paint and paintbrush and then they'd both walk into my room, Mom to clean, Dad to paint, me to seriously contemplate jumping from my bedroom window. And I don't need to kneel on the bathroom floor and eavesdrop on the Liv and Dave show to know the ensuing conversation a tear stained face would foster.

Mom: What is wrong with her?

Dad: Maybe she has more of your mother's genes than we're willing to admit.

Mom: At least I don't have a sister who killed her own father by giving him a heart attack.

Dad: We wouldn't be having this problem if Emma had applied to law school.

Mom: Maybe she needs a therapist.

Dad: If you ask me, both our kids need therapists, but we're still paying off Harvard and how long before the little one starts looking at MIT. Forget therapy. Let them be overeducated psychos for all I care.

To avoid the above scenario, I walk home. It's a good one hour walk. Stella taught me years ago to always bring a pair of ballerina slippers when wearing heels. "Just tuck them into your purse," she said, "In case your feet start to hurt." I also stop at a Starbucks to splash some cold water on my face and clean up my leaking make-up which makes me look more ghoulish than glamorous. I figure if I get home by twelve, my parents should be asleep. I order a latté and sit at some corner. This is the good thing about a big city like New York. You never really look out of place, no matter how weird you look.

Mom texts around 10:30 to see whether I'm alive. I'm on my second latté. The barista asks whether I'm waiting for someone. "Honey," I say with as much attitude as I can, "I don't wait for anyone. If I'm here alone, it's because I want to be alone." The barista takes five dollars out of the tip jar and hands it to the guy taking the orders. "You were right," she says to him, "She's been dumped." I ask the barista what that was all about. "Joe and I took a bet. He bet you were here because you were dumped and I bet you were here because no way they let you into any club wearing those pink slippers with that dress. Also, your make-up could use a touch-up." That's another thing about New York. Everyone has an opinion they need to voice.

I head back to my table. Mom texts again because it's been five minutes since her last text and I still haven't answered. She wants to know if I'm okay. I don't get the point of her, Are you okay, texts. What if I was to answer, No, get here quickly. Angry guy to my left just said he'd slit my throat. What then? I mean what would my mother be able to possibly do other than text back, Tell him to wait until I get there. P.S.: Tell him he messes with you, he messes with me.