My college friends are finding out slowly that I’m not in Kentucky anymore. Inevitably, when I tell them I’m working in New York City, their reaction is something along the lines of “Wow, you’re so grown up! I feel like I’ll never get there,” even if they have also graduated and found a job.
So it seems that just by being in NYC, I’m officially a professional, business lady on a much grander scale than I would be in Kentucky. I’m still laughing at this idea. It’s absurd. Especially when I look at my bedroom.
Lumpy futon covered in pale pink sheets with stars on them (I swear my mom bought them in the kids section of the home department), usually strewn in a corner of the mattress and in need of a wash. Wardrobe with doors thrown open (they can’t close actually, but still looks sloppy). Thin and brightly colored rug that slips around on the floor (I’ve been meaning to by one of those rug pads…). The rug also happens to be covered in strands of white-blond hair (I blame the blowdryer) and a few drops of wax from a candle. And last but not least, two mismatched plastic chests with Target stickers still on them, pushed up against the last available wall space.
In short, it looks like a dorm room. I haven’t even put up curtains! This morning I looked it over, actually looked at it for once, and I was ashamed. My roommates have nice, organized grown-up rooms, and mine is a teenage dump.
If I can manage to move to NYC on my own, get a job, find and pay for an apartment up here, and build new friendships, then surely I can make my bed on a daily basis. I think it’s time to grow up a little.