Wednesday, November 02, 2005

My body may be getting old, but I still navigate that grey area of adulthood. I am a grown up because I have professional responsibilities and live without the supervision of my mother (but the 5 phone calls a day make me question whether I truly live without mommy) and the threats of remaining a virgin until my wedding day from my father. But on the other side, I can’t take care of myself, as shown whenever John and I call the Chinese food place and we are at the point in our relationship with them where they are inquiring about our families; my Chinese launderer lightly scolds me when I get stains on my clothes, and my mother had to sort out my medical bills for me because it seemed like a different language and I would forget to pay the bill.

However, I accept all this. This is part of living in New York, the place where we are all perpetual adolescents. The cabbies act as our designated drivers so that we could get blitzed and say good bye to responsible behavior, the Chinese who do my laundry, the little Mexican guy who delivers my food so I don’t have to go out in the pouring rain. With enough money, you could live in this state of limbo forever.

Although I usually partake in the luxuries that living in NYC provides, I have always remained steadfast that I would never get a cleaning person. I am responsible enough to make sure the dishes are done, the coffee table is clear of food, and the bathroom rid of my red hair that sheds a lot, right?

Yea, that’s my coffee table in my living room. A novel in French, the Matrix DVD, and 2 rolls of toilet paper, because one just isn’t enough. And you have to appreciate the dust filled candles in a dust filled bowl, that is the center piece, ironic symbolism.

I come home from rehearsal and as I sit next to John, he asks me sheepishly, “Shannon, I think we may have to get a maid.”

I think about this for a moment.

My responsibility to clean toilets is my last thread holding me to adult behavior. Each time I am hunched over the bowl with toilet scrubber in my hand, I think to myself, “I am a grown up! This is who I am! This is practice for the one day I will be able to care for lifeforms other than a plant and pet rock!”

But scroll back up to that picture of my coffee table.

I am failing as a grown up, especially because I don’t have a roommate to keep me in line. John and I drag each other down the spiral of irresponsible behavior, each one of us the same person, which is why we have been best friends since I was 16.

“John,” I say, “I fucking agree. Let me call my cousin and get the woman who he uses.”


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