Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Dude was a total dick.”
“Yeah, but they don’t want Mr. Rogers in charge of this neighborhood. You can probably look around and guess why.”
His eyes cut a glance to the left where the bigger even fancier – and much more expensive – homes are located in the distance and gives me a small nod of agreement.
Is this where I want my forever home?
Probably not?
But maybe?
I honestly have no clue about “forever” at this point in time and am really just grateful to finally be on the other side of “temporary”.
The beginning of shopping – much like the drive over – is easy, yet once we get into the larger, more life shaping purchases, everything increases in difficulty.
Pots and pans?
No problem.
Vacuum cleaner to use between maid visits?
Super simple.
However, choosing a bedroom set, living room set, dining room set, and home office set, should all come with a personal shopper.
One that is not excited by multiple sales.
And one that is not my mother.
“Ohhhhh, what about this bedroom set?!” My mother rushes away from me for the sixth time. “Such a statement style. It says… single and sassy and sexy!”
Neither of those are messages I want to deliver.
I’m more in the independent, works too much, still trying to figure out my own likes department.
Is that a choice?
Probably not, but it fucking should be.
“It’s um…,” my head nods slowly to buy me time for the right phrasing, “definitely modern.”
“A modern bedroom for a modern woman.”
“How are you not maxed out of cliches by now? We’ve been at this shit for four hours.”
“I searched for new ones while waiting for your father to finish his Saturday morning ritual.”
Pooping while reading basketball blogs.
I don’t know what’s weirder.
The fact that we all know that or the fact that she’s that comfortable knowing her husband’s bathroom routines.
Is that something couples like…learn?
Xander and I were together for half a fucking decade and the guy never farted in front of me once. I’d say it was to keep the magic or mystery alive, but we didn’t have either of those in our relationship. And he did always get very uncomfortable when it came to anything to do with lady products or lady time itself. He couldn’t even say the word period in that context.
Mom sees me fighting a smile over her silly statement, which prompts her to say, “Hey, I’m just doing what I can to try to make this somewhat fun for you.”
Defeatedly, I sigh, “I know, Mom. And I…really…do…appreciate it.”
Especially since this day has been anything but fun.
Aggravating.
Tedious.
Obnoxious.
Cumbersome.
The list of negative adjectives could run on for miles with exhausting being the foundation for it all.
Between perplexing patterns – looking at you Chevron – and complex names for objects I would’ve just labeled table or footstool – like come on, is it necessary to call it an Ottoman? – , it’s obvious that I’ve never done this shit before.
And like so many other things, it’s long overdue.
And finding out more and more that I’m not where I thought I was in this whole “adulting” adventure kind of fucking sucks.
And fighting against the instinct to shove a garlic knot into my mouth to assist in the coping only makes it fucking suck more.
“Jellybean,” her voice drops to the overly concerned level I am so not a fan of, “look at me.”
My eyes lift from my strappy sandal covered feet up to hers.
“We don’t have to do all this right now. We’ve already done so much today. So much you can be proud of. That you should be proud of.”
Not feeling proud of much nowadays.
“We can do this shopping in shifts. I have no problem making more time to do this with you. We can come back and-”
“No,” I quickly cut her off. “We can’t come back. We can’t just do this later, Mom. I don’t have shit in that house.”
“Pres-”
“No,” my instant interruption promptly shuts her lips, “I don’t wanna wait. I don’t wanna keep postponing my life instead of living it. I wanna buy new furniture. And new appliances. And use my new zebra-print, weighted blanket to see if it really does help me sleep better at night. I wanna get settled in this next phase of my life and actually move forward. And the longer it takes to do all this, get all of these things, the longer it’s going to take for me to really reach that point. And I recently realized that I’ve already delayed so much of my life due to pure complacency. I’m done procrastinating. I’m done existing instead of living. I’m done with my past and am doing everything effing possible to shape my present, so can we please…please…just get back to looking at bedroom sets.”
To my surprise, she not only takes my hand but offers me a sweet smile. “I’m so proud of you, Presley.”