Being newly graduated and unemployed, I decided that my best option was to move home for the summer. I'm not sure how most parents would take this sort of thing, but mine were most accommodating: to be specific, my father announced "I'm so glad... it's almost like getting a raise!" and my mother started to develop a list of family projects with which I could help. No sooner had I told them (before graduation) than they wanted to know how much I had to move and how soon they needed to bring the trailer over. Three weeks later I decided it was about time, and we packed up all of my things and brought it back to the family homestead.
It's funny how things aren't quite the same in your memory as they are in real life. For instance, I swear that my room shrunk - all of my neatly packed boxes are stacked waist high, and more than half of the floor is completely taken up. I'm terrified to unpack anything lest it expand to fill the space I need to access the dresser. I'm having a similar problem with bookshelves; I only bought fifteen books this year, yet I have more than fifty that are going to stay in boxes for lack of space. It's inexplicable.
One thing I know wasn't me, however, is the decór. I walked into my room last week, with the dark forest-y green on the walls that I fought tooth-and-nail to convince my father would work (and it does), looked around, and realized I wasn't in Kansas anymore. A massive satin comforter with quilting patterns and appliqué flowers covered the bed, the mirror door was replaced with a normal one, and three versions of George Washington's face were looking down on me.
I kid you not; while I was out my room was turned into the Revolutionary War Memorial Guest Room... but will I be here long enough for it to be worth changing?
