I didnít move out of my Momís home until a couple years ago. Three to be exact. This means, I lived with my mother for 36 years. Gasp! Horror! Well, I know some people, including men older than me, who still live with their mothers. So Iíd say Iím not so bad. Thereís this guy I worked with, you know him Ė Media personality Ė he moved out of his Momís home in his late 40s. As a matter of fact, we may have been smart to stay there as long as we did. Smart, and okay yeah, in my case, maybe I was unable to afford moving out. Donít know that I am able to afford it now, but itís proving to be a great experience being on my own and I wouldnít trade it for anything.
The actual plan and advice was to wait until I got married. But, since that was not happening - at least not fast enough for me - I decided to take things into my own hands. So here I am - on my own, in my own place, all aloneÖ me oneÖ me, myself and I.
No, Iím not lonely. Well, not all the time, mostly. I am however, alone. Hereís whatís great about living alone, especially where I live. Itís an unusually large one-bedroom, with kitchen, living/dining, large balcony, thick walls, walk-in closet, pool, well manicured landscaping, fully equipped laundry, more than adequate parking, and 24-hour security. Everyone that visits me says, ďI love your place.Ē I love it too, and no, there are no more available on the complex, so donít ask. I have this sofa bed, which Iíve had to will to my friend, Gail. I feel comfortable enough to keep my doors and windows open 24/7 which allows the continuous breeze to flow through. Fairy-taleish, huh? Now that you have a picture of where I live, other than all that, hereís some of why I love it:
I donít have to say, ďGood morningĒ to anybody, or ďGoodnightĒ for that matter.
I donít have to bathe if I donít want to. Youíve been warned - you call before you come over.
I can buy whatever food I want, or not buy any, if I want. My fridge is famous for holding really cold water.
Iíve mastered cooking for one, or a pot of soup for five.
I can eat what I want, when I want, and how I want, without any questions or disapproving looks.
I get visitors.
I donít have to answer the door or the phone.
I get to spy on everybody coming and going and make up salacious stories about the tenants and their guests.
I can live as cave-like as I want. Batgirl Ė thatís me!
I have my own bills. I am master of my own consumption.
I have the option of signing up for the XXX channel. (Mmmm, smile)
I got my own space. S-P-A-C-E. And you need my permission to get into it.
I like saying to my Mom and brothers, ďDonít you have a key?Ē (Ha! Ha! Ha! Snort)
But people, there is nothing like your Mamaís home! I should know. Besides my brotherís tough bed, the cat fur and smelly dogs, home is really a better place. At least my home, Ďcause where I live from day-to-day, I call that Ďmy yaadí. But home is where the family always ends up. If thatís what you like.
Look it, at my home, I can walk around the yard, sometimes even get ticks and play dandy-shandy with what we call horse mosquitoes. I can smell cane burning and hear the fire cracking while I pray the sparks donít fly over and catch the house ablaze. At my home, the police pass through just to check on us, especially when my Mom bakes. At my home, my Mom prays for me and kisses me on the forehead just before I leave to go out and sometimes just before I go to bed. She cooks my lunch and leaves it in the toaster oven and she even asks me, the dysfunctional fashion guru, what to wear. Itís a blast! Makes me feel so wanted and capable. There, we have every fruit tree necessary. I can pick plum, guava, and ackee and not fear Iím taking too much. There is enough land for the handy man to plant pumpkin now and sorrel for Christmas later.
Neighbours come by just to make sure weíre okay and to hang out and play scrabble or dominoes. Home is among a little community of families that look out for each other. At my home, Patches, my 12-year-old cat knows when itís time to wake up. Whether you want or need to get up sheís telling you it is 6:00 a.m. and time to let her in so she can clean herself on your bed. When the moon is full, it lights up the entire area and when there is none, you can barely see your hand in front of your face. I get a kick out of driving without my headlights on those nights. (Note to self: you need to stop that).
The confusing thing, though, is that I only miss these things when Iím actually at home. Cause when Iím here at my yaad, I relish being here and almost dread going home. Weird, ainít I?
Iíve been thinking Ė Home is truly where the heart lies. It just doesnít want to lie on too hard a bed.