“WHAT?! First of all that is crazy talk. Central New York is the most economically depressing and subsequently emotionally depressing area of the country I’ve ever seen. Secondly, I love Austin and I’ve made a great life for myself. Why does she want me to move back? Because she misses me or because she thinks I can’t take care of myself?”
“Well, we worry about you becoming a vagabond. You know….”
“We just don’t want you to become a certain 56 year-old man that we know.”
“He’s not 57.”
“Yes, he is. He was born two years before you.”
“Well, I’ve been not married to your father more than I was married to him, so how the hell should I know?”
“Dad really enjoys his life. Yes, he’s maybe had two wives, lived in seven different states, had thirty different jobs, and thirty-five cars, and now he’s an actor in Los Angeles, but he’s happy!”
Then the tiniest sigh.
From both of us.
This conversation came only a few weeks after a text message appeared across my phone that said “I have these visions of you being alone for the rest of your life- Your Father”.
What is it with parents and their uncontrobable urge to verbally explain their fears of us becoming Little Edie? I don’t want them to roll their eyes and suggest otherwise when I tell them that I’m moving into a cockroach infested loft in a new city of my choosing. Naysaying will only question my steadfast validity in the decision at the time, and I don’t want that. Keep your dreams of the white picket fence to yourself!
“Shut up Mom! That’s some cold shit!” Is all Rob can muster up in return.