The Un-Stepford Reality

As part of our final in my human relations class we had to write a five year plan for what we hoped to accomplish. I remember fantasising of owning my own restaurant, living in some far off place and starting a family. Newsflash,this was nearly seven years ago, and none of those things have really happened.

Coincidently, two weeks before I would have to register for classes for spring quarter, my parents informed me that I wouldneed to pay half my tuiton. I don't even have a clear memory of the exact situation, but I did know that I had beenliving on * "Broke Food" for months, and didn't have that kind of scratch lying around. I must have informed my mother of my situation because she took pity on me, and even let me move home for a while to pay off the credit card thatI had been using to purchase the youth bus passes and supplement my meager wages at the restaurant to make rent.

The plan changed...drastically. I had been fighting tooth and nail for hours at two, sometimes three restaurants at a time trying to make rent and keep my bosses happy, and I had just had enough. Years pass and I still hadn't gone back to school,I finally give in to the fact that I'm never going to make much more than minimum wage and possibly some tips in a restaurant. My younger sister tells us she's pregnant, then a year later my brother. That was it, I knew that I didn't want to end up with a bunch of kids and some flaky guy - which desribed most of the 20 something year old males I was surrounded by at the time.

Genetically predisposed to be a collector, I tried to fight my urges and gave away most of the belongings I aquired. Kitchen appliances to friends and my siblings, art supplies to the children's art museum downtown, the rest to goodwill. The guy at the donation center asked me more than once if I wasgetting rid of a bad roommate, I was tempted to tell him yes. I kept four plastic tubs, all I believed my parents would tolerate/ not notice in their crawl space : one with some nice clothing, one full of books, another with cds and a few movies and the last with yarn and the expensive watercolors that I had aquired slowly over the years as I could afford them. For years my mother had been trying to talk me into joining the military. She said that it would do wonders for me, make me less shy. It was very much like stepping off the diving board and just hoping there was still a pool of water to catch you.

I packed one little bag and boarded one plane after another, bouncing around the country and finally arriving in Columbia, South Carolina. I had only heardof this place in books and movies, but I was stationed there for basic training. I had expected something differant, something more foregin I guess. Really, Ft Jackson didn't look that differant from where I grew up, the major differance that I noticed was the beach grass that seemed very out of place that far inland, and the beach sand that surrounded the cookie cutter buildings we were hurried between. Very concrete, and very seventies style.The next couple of months were a blur of sorts, the day to day events documented for posterity in the drawn out handwritten letters that I sent almost daily to my family back in Washington. We had never been seperated by much more than a couple hours drive when us kids would go on school trips.

Though communication got easier once basic training was over and I was stationed in Texas for medic training, I still felt very disconnected from my family; I missed holidays, barbeques and the birth of my nephew, I shipped presents home, so at least they wouldn't think I had forgotten about them.

Although I missed my family terribly, I knew that I couldn't go back to living in my hometown. Assigned to a unit in Seattle, I knew that left a prettybig chunk of land along the west coast that I could concievably commute to for our monthly drills. After scouring the internet and comparing rent pricesand local activities, I decided on Portland. Seaside, where my family used to vacation and I had always enjoyed, was about an hour away, and it was a very pedestrian friendly town. Oh, and studios were $900 in Seattle and I hate driving in the hills there, aka most of the downtown area.

I spent four days in Spokane after I flew in from San Antonio after our AIT graduation. In my experience that is about the limit of time I can spendat my parents house before they start assigning me chores and asking where I am or why I've been out all night (I just forgot to bring housekeys and didn't want to wake them at 3am to let me in, so I crashed at a friend's house. No need to call be four times between six and eight-thirty, ya know). Loading up the pickup truck that I borrowed from my father to transprort my few belongings south to Oregon, I didn't even consider that I should have stayed a bit longer, visited my nieces and nephews that I hadn't seen since Christmas. I had an exciting life waiting six hours south, and a few snowflurries weren't going to deter me.

It's been about eight months since I moved now. Ditched the roommate that I was convinced would make it cheaper to live here (it didn't). Found a walkup apartment to stow the my treasures but I still find something lacking. I really should have waited longer to go back to my job, I was on military leave. It really isn't as fun, or even tolerable as I remember. I don't have the freedom to go visit my family when school or monthly drills aren't limiting me. I want to go visit my old teachers at the alternative/ arty high school that I graduated from, but can't stomach the fact that I would have to admit to my state in life. I really thought that I would have accomplished more. They have this formyou have to fill out when you stop by the school; they take your picture, then it asks about your job I would rather put student than admit that I work there, it almost feels like I've failed. It's hard to even look check facebook, nine out of ten people I graduated with are married and most of them have kids. The most I can really lay claim to is that I escaped the black hole that is our hometown and have never recieved welfare benefits (oh, and no baby daddy with five kids in tow.)

Maybe there was just too much "Stepford", not enough reality in my expectation of what my life would be like at twenty-six. My aunts and uncles had married fairly young and had at least one child, my mother the youngest of five - I never expected to be this close to thirty with a yarn collection and not so much as a goldfish as a housemate. Each of my closest siblings (both younger) have a pair of kids, and I'm starting to wonder what the family saysabout me when I'm not there. About three years ago, shortly after my niece was born, I was at a baby shower with my mother and a bunch of her friends. Over mimosas on a Saturday afternoon, they were talking about their children. I just happened to be within ear shot when one of them motioned toward me,coincidently holding said niece, and they asked my mother when I was going to have kids already. I don't remember the exact quote, but her response wassomething to the effect of, I had some time, but my parents were going to start badgering me about it before too long. I guess the appearance of three othergrandkids and my joining the military has stuffed the proverbeal sock in it for now. I have yet to hear a peep from them.

Queen of casseroles that my mother is, there were some things that she didn't have time for raising us rambuncious four.From her I learned the basics : how to sew on a button, iron a dress shirt and calm a screaming infant, but I expanded on this knowledge as I grew older. Though occasionally I sew a button onto something I have hand knit, I never iron(I don't even own an iron, that is what ten minutes in the dryer with a wet sock is for: strangely something Mom taught me during high school), and the only babies I'm calming aren't my own. Yes, I am the baby whisperer, a beer in one hand and a formula bottle in the other, I know my place. Occasionally it seems strange that my two younger siblingshave children and I do not, but I have so much more freedom (and no baby mama drama to boot). I travel too often to keep a more than a fern, let alone a toddler. For now, I occupy a tidy little walk-up apartment filled with handmade items and treasures from my travels. It is kind of nice to have the option to stay up to make jam at night and knit a fewrows on a hat, without worrying of waking anyone. I can sleep in and go for a run in the morning. It may be three orfour hours into my day before I speak to another human (until I can learn to order coffee by sign language that is). Someday I will have that place with canned fruit and veggies filling the cupboards, wool spilling from the closet waves lapping at the shore, but until then, this place will do.

*"Broke Food" - a ratatouille of sorts with lots of garlic, mushrooms and corn, that can be served with pasta or watered down for soup. One big pot usually lasts far longer that I can stand to eat the same meal for, usually about a week or so. Costs about $7-10 to make, including a $2.50 five pound bag of pasta and/or top ramen to mix it up a bit.I've always been far too proud to apply for food stamps, instead I make the sacrifice and live very modestly from time to time.