Forever Young...?

“Anyone who doubts the veracity of your blog should try skyping you. One webcam conversation with Juliet and you know that your blog does not lie,” laughed Laura, my childhood friend who I was catching up with on Thanksgiving. Within the 10 minutes my friend and I were speaking, every single one of my crib roommates (AKA my family) walked into my room. Mind you, I had just gotten out of the shower and was sitting in front of my computer with a towel on. “Privacy” is nonexistent in the Perrachon lexicon.

While Laura and I were attempting to have a serious catch-up on the past month, my brother followed by my sister waltzed in… for no apparent reason… just to check up on their “older” sister. After I finally got rid of them, my father who has been making great strides at trying to be uber involved in my life popped in. Before I knew it, I was kicked off my computer, and Daddy was enjoying a leisurely conversation with my friend. So much for our much needed catch-up.

When I finally thought I’d safely gotten rid of everyone and could attempt at a private conversation with Laura, my mother barged in furious, as always, at the state of my room. Admittedly my room has become a bit of an obstacle course in the past few months. My return home has made my laziness surge at an exponential rate. Some of you might tell me, “Wake up Juliet, it’s not like you’ve ever been tidy.” True, but if you thought I was messy before, it’s only gotten worse since my fateful return to the crib. Oh my god, that is it! Return to the crib. I have returned to my childlike irresponsible state. My poor clothes have been feeling the brunt of my new condition, as they get tossed onto the floor carelessly. I come home late at night half-drunk to find a huge pile of messy clothes on my bed and at 3 in the morning, tell me please, who really wants to puts those things away? Not I. No no, just throw them all on the floor and deal with it in the morning. Or the day after. Or … until my mother flips out on me….like NOW.

The less I care, the more my mother does unfortunately. I feel like a child again. As if it weren’t enough that I live at home jobless, everyone assumes I’m my 16-year-old sister’s long lost twin. “Oh yes, we kept this one locked up for a while…mwahahahah.” Right. Then when I complain about this to my friends, they look at me as if I were on crazy pills, “You should be thrilled, you look YOUNG.” Don’t you see? I mean, looking young is good, but looking that young!? I’m not an angst-ridden teenager all over again or am I? What about the past seven years!? Don’t those count for anything? I mean, I’m a 25 (almost 26, ah!) -year-old part-time unemployed loser who lives at home, remember? The least I can do is look my age, however irresponsible I may be in my room. And to the hairdresser I went. “I want it short, choppy, and simply different.” A few hours later, I came home looking like a new woman. My mother squinted her eyes, “You look…. older.” YES, that is precisely what I was going for! Enough of not being taken seriously.

Laura and my conversation got cut short for obvious reasons. Minutes later my whole family was showing up for Thanksgiving and I was still in my towel. As I rushed to find appropriate clothes for the feast, dry my hair, apply some makeup (attempt to not look like I’m 12), all while my mother’s screams were far from subsiding, I thought about my conversation with Laura. Despite not being able to tell her what was happening in my life, the glory of technology made it such that she was a witness of my life for 10 perfect minutes. Words were unnecessary.

While I sat at our dining room table struggling to explain to my relatives my most important “life plans” (or lack there of), I wondered what I should be thankful for. Honestly, I hate not being taken seriously, but on the flip side, I’ll probably have to be responsible for the rest of my life (one would hope!) so why not enjoy my childhood-like stint while it’s still here.

When I moved out seven years ago, my little sister Victoria was only eight. She was still the little baby I saw as a real-life doll, yes! When my sister was born, I took her in my arms and said in the uttermost serious of tones, “I’m glad you’re here, we are now two against one.” And with that I gave a vicious stare at my brother. How did I know so soon? I have now come home to discover that the little girl I left is a mature and beautiful teenager (I guess I won’t complain that people think we’re twins)…who loves shopping…a lot. Our lives until now have continuously been at different stages, but slowly and surely we are finding overlap. Talking to her makes me so happy I’m no longer in high school, I can tell you that. The other night, we stayed in together on a Saturday night. I cooked dinner, we watched a movie, then crashed early in my queen-sized bed. My father woke us up the next morning. “Mes bébés filles,” (My baby girls) he told us as he sat on my bed.

OK, I realize the past paragraph was getting a little sappy, but isn’t that cute? These are the glories of living at home, my friends. Don’t you all want to move back… like, pronto and totally watch Gossip Girl?

Ha, no. The next night, I got into such a bad fight with Sheriff Olivier, that I lost it. completely. And when I say I lost it, I mean my voice. Alright fine, also my mind. Whatever. I had an interview the next day and if it hadn’t been for the loads of cough drops and cups of tea, I would have had zero voice. Umm sign language anyone? I proceeded to be ill for about 10 days. Well whatever, it comes with the territory I guess.

So for how much longer can I linger in my post-traumatic childhood-like state? Probably not that much longer, but until then… I guess I’m “Forever Young!”