#YoungProfessional: There’s No Place Like Home
by Brent McDermott
IN “THE WIZARD of Oz,” Dorothy longs for adventure in the Emerald City. A melting witch and a troupe of flying monkeys later, she pines for the comforts of her home in Kansas. She clicks her heels three times, and wakes up to find her loving family gathered around her bed. Roll credits. What if the movie didn’t end there? I wonder how Dorothy felt about going home after she turned 30.
During undergrad, my mom and dad’s house was my sanctuary. A quick hundred miles of yellow brick road down I-75, and I was free from the flying monkeys college life was throwing in my direction. Grappling with the grind of TopRamen dinners, deciphering between APA and Chicago style footnotes and perpetual buyer’s remorse after blackout life choices, I frequently needed a refuge.
My sophomore year had been a test of my mettle. That fall, I took the bait of free room and board and signed on as an RA. Within weeks, I’d regretted my decision. Spread wafer thin and stressed to the max, the job took its toll. Then, in January, the antics of a boxed wine Wednesday, perhaps a blessing in disguise, ended my stint as an RA. Being fired should have been a relief, but instead I felt disgraced and riddled with self-doubt.
I headed home, hoping to find the courage, heart and brains to get through the rest of the semester. When I pulled into my parents’ driveway, I knew everything was going to be OK.
Ten years after my sophomore slump, things feel much different when I pull into that familiar driveway. I’m no longer jetting home for paternal wisdom or shelter from life’s flying monkeys. Instead, I’m there to celebrate a birthday or holiday, and hopefully rekindle some of the warm fuzzies I used to feel about coming home. However, that is easier said than done.
Most friends my age lament about getting the third degree from their parents who are pushing them into their next phase of life. Whether it be getting married, having kids or finishing grad school, their parents implore them to get on with it. Lucky for me, I have three siblings, all married, and all with kids. If there is pressure from my parents to “grow up,” I’m oblivious to it.
In some respects, I wish my parents would nag me to speed things up. It would justify my reluctance to come home. When I do come home, I pretend not to mind my status as a lone wolf. Sure, having to lobby for a seat at the adults table at Christmas dinner is aggravating. And, yes, when my niece asks me why I still have roommates can feel deflating. That being said, my family is remarkably accepting of my lifestyle, especially when you consider their Irish Catholic breeding instincts.
My disinclination has more to do with me than it does with them. Seeing my mom with a few more wrinkles on her face, and my dad slower to rise from his Barcalounger, makes me feel older; seeing my siblings, all aglow as they watch their kids obliterate a Christmas play, reminds me that the clock is ticking.
In preparation for this column I asked a couple dozen friends and coworkers how they felt about going home. The most poignant answer came from my friend Mark, who recently turned 30. He remarked that when he goes home, it isn’t home to him anymore. Seeing his aging parents and former classmates, he is reminded of what he hasn’t done yet in life and it makes him feel uneasy.
With a vacation approaching and the prospect of “going home” confronting me, I now feel better prepared to face the music. When one of my adorable nieces asks me why I don’t have a wife, kids or a house, I’ll think of the life I’ve carved out in Ann Arbor, click my heels three times, and whisper, “There’s no place like home.”
Brent McDermott is a graduate of Central Michigan University. He works at Aventura in downtown Ann Arbor and writes for The Ann Arbor Independent about decidedly non-hipster life as a 30-something non-student in Tree Town.