On Saturday, an oddball of an article popped up on the Pacific News Service. Penned by a 23-year-old “twixter” still living with his parents, this writer — let’s call him Pete Micek, because that’s his name — shared the joys and tribulations of living at home past age 18 and, as in his case, past college graduation. Apparently, the numbers of such “twixters” are on the rise: The article cites a 2003 University of Michigan study that found that “the proportion of people in their 20s living with their parents increased [by] 50 percent between 1970 and 1990.”
Without having to read the article, it should be obvious what most of the pros and cons of “twixterdom” (God, I love using that word) are. Pro: Free rent! Con: Getting cock-blocked by your own parents. Pro: No utility bills! Con: Your parents’ stern looks at the breakfast table when you’re hungover and have inexplicably lost your pants. Pro: 100% disposable income! Con: Sunday dinners with the ’rents, the little sis and incontinent Aunt Georgia. Pro: Free rent, dude!
With graduation only a few weeks away for some of us (good luck, you poor souls), I bet taking your diploma and shacking up with the folks has crossed at least a few of your minds. Come on, admit it. The arrangement would only be temporary until you find that $200k-a-year job with benefits, your own secretary and a private jet, right? And speaking for myself, because my opinion is the only one that matters, Micek’s article made living with one’s parents come close to actually being appealing.
Almost. “Hey guys, I just scored some free rent!” doesn’t have the same ring to it as “Hey guys, I just scored with that hottie from the bar!” And I’m not sure my parents would even let me move back in; judging by that huge party they threw when I went off to college they’re glad to have me tucked neatly away, 500 miles from home.
Twixterdom at least has that element of predictability: You know your parents and their quirks, instead of moving in with best friends who, as soon as Move-In Day arrives, morph into monsters who eat your cereal, forget to pay bills on time, break your favorite Star Wars toy and otherwise make your life a living hell.
But look at us — we’re only too eager to skip into the wild blue yonder of living with people we naively assume will become our best friends. Girls dream of painting each others’ toenails during Tom Cruise movie marathons, borrowing each other’s clothes and being each other’s tearful, giggling maids of honor. Guys dream of — well, I’m not sure what guys dream of, but it probably involves a roommate with a cool gaming system, a ton of DVDs and a lot of hot female friends.
These scenarios rarely occur in real life, but their siren call is obvious whenever yet another idealistic student hopefully sign a new lease for “the coolest house/apartment/condo ever!” We’ll take three years living with Miss Hellspawn if we can someday enjoy a month living with Mr. Awesome with his plasma TV, knack for making the best steak in the world and personal connections to Chris Rock. Or we’ll overlook a place’s shortcomings because of its prime location — “Hey, buddy! This place doesn’t have running water, but it’s near the beach!” Or we’ll gladly jump through the landlord’s hoops to score the “perfect” housing — “a $10,000 deposit, no parking and no electricity after 9 pm? Sign me up! But only if you knock 20% off my first month’s rent — what an awesome deal!”
Who knows what will happen to us when we graduate and those handy checks from mom and pop are suddenly replaced with admonitions to get a job? (Personally, I plan on marrying rich so I never have to worry about money. I’ve already set the date for the wedding: June 18, 2006, the Sunday after my graduation. You’re all invited, especially if you want to be the groom.)
It doesn’t help that UCSD is governed by the ethos that if you don’t land a job as an engineer the minute you finish your degree, you’re going to die alone and broke. No one will ever love you, and you will slowly waste away on a diet of Ramen noodles, booze and tears. Your parents will disown you, and America will cast your worthless, soulless shell into the ocean to be eaten by fish that lead more meaningful lives than yours.
Or, I suppose you can embrace twixterdom and move back into your parents’ house. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. You can handle a few more years of family dinners and no love life, right?
Share your own tales of twixterdom by having your parents send a sizable check to [email protected].
