I spent the weekend in my hometown, an act that I can never quite string together into an accurate sentence. Did I “go home this weekend”? Or “visit my parents’ house”? Maybe, “the town I grew up in”? I can’t seem to find the right words.
I wonder when, exactly, that changes. Because as much as I understand that I live in Philadelphia, in my big girl apartment, with my boyfriend, the words still slip out every time I take that familiar route up I-95: I’m going home.
It’s not even like their house is more familiar to me than our little fourth floor-walk up; it’s not. I go home infrequently enough that it’s still a minor readjustment every time, remembering which drawer holds the frying pans and how the back stairs curve and the fact that there’s a cathedral ceiling in the study now, thanks to a little remodeling my mom pioneered a few years ago.
It doesn’t help that one of my mother’s favorite hobbies – to my father’s chagrin – is redecorating. One by one, the rooms of my childhood have disappeared, replaced by interior designer-approved curtains and reupholstered sofas and, if she really bugs him enough, new furniture. In a weird twist, the futon that was totally the scene of many a high school make out session now resides in our apartment, while the room that used to house it now contains a queen-sized bed for Dave and I to sleep in when we visit. Cue the “Circle of Life” or something?
Anyway, this post actually wasn’t meant to devolve into an existential examination of growing up, or something fit for Lifetime TV. I’m just surprised to still be in this sort of limbo. I’m surprised that I still feel such affection for a place where I probably haven’t spent more than seven consecutive days since I was 19.
And, really, I just wanted to show you some pictures.
Like, of my dog.
And my brother. Who generally looks at me like this:
Except when he thinks no one’s looking. (Gotta love that Nikon zoom lens.)
I was also reunited with my mom’s credit card.
Just kidding! I bought that lace Odille shirt all by myself. Although, yeah, I’m probably returning it.
Mani/pedis, on the other hand, are a mother-daughter-BFFs tradition, and anyone who tries to pay (cough, Megan) will be swiftly punished.
While hanging around the house, the nostalgia, as always, is free. And also apparently mandatory, due to the ever-present reminders of Hannukahs and hair styles past.
(Yes, Shanie. That’s you.)
All in all, it was a lovely weekend with a classic itinerary (nails, sushi, shopping, repeat) plus one unfamiliar face (the Ecuadorian resident.)
Who, actually, might not be a resident of Ecuador for much longer. He’s not coming home, exactly, but sometimes being separated by a few states, instead of a continent, is close enough.