2016's First Ramble

Isn't it crazy? When I was younger, I couldn't wait to be twenty-something years old, because I knew these would be the prime years. I assumed I'd know everything there is to know about life by this strange, odd age of 24 (okay, more even than odd). Now here I am, a few weeks past my 24th birthday, without a clue about the adult things that I've been hearing about and should do or start doing, the adult things described with words and numbers I never thought to string together as a child:

• "Are utilities included in the rent?" 
• "Is 750 square feet big enough?"
• "401K."
• "Make a budget."

While I'm getting more involved in the adult life I had long pined for, I admit that a part of me wants to stay at home, where I know I don't have to cook my own meals and can even make requests here and there, where I can assume that if the laundry hamper is overflowing, someone else (i.e. Mom) will likely take care of it, where I am more taken care of than taking care of. But I acknowledge that sooner or later, I must "grow up," and that means physically detaching myself from home for long periods of time.

When I lived in the dorms my freshman and sophomore years at UCLA, I didn't dare call those 10'x10' rooms "home," because home was where I returned every Friday to see my family, friends, and then-S.O. When I moved into my apartment on Rochester Avenue junior year, I was reluctant--and afraid--to call apt. 410 home: reluctant because I wasn't sure how I felt about my roommates, how I felt about the apartment, how I felt about the rent; afraid because I didn't want to emotionally detach myself from my official home, because I felt like I was betraying my parents if I could make a home outside of the one in which they raised me. But after a few months of simultaneously nonchalantly and intentionally calling apt. 410 "my apartment," I began to ease into calling it "home," albeit not "my home." Eventually, "home" became an utterly confusing term--it referred to apt. 410, M's apt. 102, my parents' house, M's parents' house... And at some point in the midst of all that, I learned that home truly is where your heart is. And your heart can be in many places at once, and it isn't a case of betrayal or disloyalty; rather, it's a sign of family, acceptance, love--however differently displayed in the respective realms. 

Me picking fruits with my dad at home

Shortly thereafter, I learned that the term "family" is just as flexible as "home." It's the people who love and accept you at your best and your worst, who give you a hand when the going gets rough and root for you even with the smallest accomplishments. 

Just before I turned 24, I began to practice being assertive and being flexible. I'm more assertive--though not necessarily pushy--about the things I want or don't, more assertive about my feelings and my intentions. I'm more flexible in my attitudes toward others--though I probably should stop yelling at other drivers while I'm driving alone with the windows closed; flexibility in this sense mostly refers to my interactions with and acceptance of people--except irritating drivers, I guess. Even though as a child I thought I'd be all grown up by now, I'm still growing up and learning a lot about not just (adult) life, but also about myself. You know the saying "There's always room for improvement"? Not true in every case, but I do believe it's true for personal development and growth. No matter how old you've just turned or what you've done, there's always room for improvement.