So here I am, a 19 year old college student living on my own for the first time. Well technically I did live in a dorm last year but I don’t count that. Why? Well because in the dorm there are still people taking care of you, a janitor that cleans your bathroom (that is if you live in a dorm with a communal bathroom like I did), people that make your food for you, and an RA that for the most part looks after you to make sure you aren’t doing anything too dumb. My point here is that living in a dorm does not count, at least in my book, for living on your own.
Okay, back to my main point, I am living on my own for the first time ever and well it is not exactly what I had pictured when I imagined having my first apartment. It is definitely a love-hate rate relationship. Love, I don’t have to tell my parents where I’m going every time I leave. Hate, I don’t have my parents there to do things for me. I know this makes me sound like a spoiled brat that never did anything, and relied on their parents to do everything for them, which is not what my childhood looked like. I always did chores, and unlike some people I know, I know how to do my laundry and wash my own dishes. But its the little things I miss most about living with my parents, like having a handyman at the call of a “DAD!” and having someone who makes most meals for you, and pays for most things for you as well. So here I am living in my own apartment trying to do this thing called “adulting” which I know I am not doing correctly because calling your parents pretty much once a day to ask different questions about how to do things does not make me feel like an adult.
Living on my own consists of me calling my mom to ask her how to make different dishes. Like, “Mom, how long do you cook salmon and what temperature does the oven have to be set to?” “Can I get sick if I don’t do this right?” “Should I just make something else so I don’t mess up?”. Not only do I call my mom all the time but, maybe even my dad more. Like the time I saw a mouse in my apartment. I don’t think I have ever freaked out as much I did in that moment. My first call was obviously to my dad who if I was at home is in charge of getting rid of live animals that were not our dog or our cat. And was he helpful at all? No. He just laughed at me and told me to hit it with a broom or go to the store and get traps. Um, dad, that means I have to go through the living room where I have it trapped and then it might attack me. So pretty much having a mouse in my apartment was the most traumatic thing I have ever had to go through.
Basically, living on my own is just me being confused all the time and calling my parent for some help or advice. Just call me Kim K…