I remained blissfully unaffected by the emotional
turmoil of pubescence. I spent sunny Saturdays at the racetrack with my
Dad and long hours shopping with Mom at the mall. I sat patiently on my
parents’ bed every morning as Mom applied my makeup and arranged my dark
hair in elaborate coiffures. Then we would walk hand in hand to the
train station, where Mom would kiss me goodbye as I headed off to my job
at Bank of Montreal. I lived for weekends when I would sit on the front
balcony of my parents’ house, reading while Dad washed his minivan after
our weekly grocery trip.
I had two best friends who would sleep over occasionally, with Mom and
Dad hovering good-naturedly over us, serving lavish meals and trying to
sound informed on the topics of teenage girl-talk. I was an adolescent
angel who never went anywhere without her parents, who couldn’t steal
the family car for joyrides, who never even thought of sneaking a sip of
wine.
At twenty-three, I moved out of my parents’ house in Ontario, to live
with my boyfriend in British Columbia. Armed with no more than A
five-hour flight and three time zones later, I was shown groceries from
which I was expected to create hearty meals. My overstuffed shopping bag
broke as I walked home from my first solitary shopping trip, scattering
cleaning supplies on the sidewalk. That night, I fought back tears as my
boyfriend valiantly chomped on a half-baked potato I served for dinner.
At that moment, my rebellious independence fell flat on its ass.
Three years later, free from pubescent emotions, I know that moving was
an important step in my growing up. I love my parents but I need to be
more than their little girl. Cutting my finger while opening a can,
burning my arm when the iron tilts, spilling spaghetti sauce on my
sweater, getting lost in the grocery aisles – these lessons in
self-sufficiency define a life that I can finally call my own.
(c) Kristy Kassie, 2006