Reclaiming My Time

I found my old keepsake box tucked securely on the bottom shelf in the far-left corner of the storage shed. The last time I saw the box was more than 15 years ago when I stashed it there; protecting it from the prying eyes of my overbearing mother. She hated not knowing my every move. I was an only child who matured quickly due to being constantly surrounded by the over 50 and full of fire crew.

I was born to older parents. My mother was 45 and my father was 47. The odds were stacked against me, I was doomed to never be able to relate to a child my age. At the age of 16, when other kids were dating and going to parties, I preferred hanging out with my grandmother. We would sit on the sofa on Friday nights and watch reruns of Matlock or Perry Mason. Yeah, I was that kid - devoid of a normal social life. I can tell you this; I gained a lot of wisdom from her. Most of which saved me from a lot of pain and sorrow. Boy, do I miss her.

In the distance, I could hear my mother calling me. Even now at 30 years old, she still hovered over me like the helicopter parent she was. You would think she had a tracking device embedded under the skin of my forearm. She probably had the doctors insert it when I had to have surgery to remove my adenoids when I was three years old.

I hurriedly covered the box with a blanket I found laying on top of my childhood kitchenette set. Did I mention that my mother was somewhat of a hoarder? Not a “I can’t get into the door of my house” hoarder, but a “I am going to keep everything I deem meaningful neatly organized in the shed or basement” kind of hoarder. Once she was able to put her little squinty dark brown eyes on me, she went and sat back down on the couch to resume watching her soap opera.

“Ma, why do you watch this stuff? These same people have been on this story since before I was born. I bet you it’s the same old recycled story line,” I said.

“Do I tell you what to watch on tv? Well then leave me alone. I have to find out if Victor and Victoria will get back together,” she said.

“I rest my case. Those two have been breaking up and getting back together since 1985.”

I really didn’t care what she was watching. It was just to ensure she would be glued to the tv for the next hour or so. I wanted to review the treasures lying dormant in my keepsake box. Fifteen years was a long time. I counted the steps, a ritual my parents had begun when I was three years old to teach me number sequence. Yep, 13 steps, same as before…same as always.

My room was the third room on the left. I had a private bathroom, well not really. When we had overnight interlopers, I had to share it; however, 95% of the time it was my spa retreat. Less spa, more retreat to get away from my mother when she tried to eaves drop on my conversations. My friends…yes, I have friends, joked that I lived in the bathroom.

As I laid the box on my bed, I saw an inquisitive yet frightened spider crawl from the corner of the box. I shrieked, knocking the box and spider on the floor. I then proceeded to stomp the poor spider to its tragic death. “Better him than me,” I muttered.

“Are you ok up there!”

“Yeah, ma! I just knocked something over!” I hollered. “I’m fine!”

“Ok, let me know if you need help cleaning up the mess!”

“I’m good ma! No mess!”

I looked down and an old picture caught my attention. It was me with my best friend London at the state fair. She was two years older than me. I had to be around 14 years old. London had just gotten her license and because she was so responsible my mother allowed me to ride with her to the fair.

What my mother didn’t know was responsible London picked up two of her friends on the way to the fair, made a pit stop at the liquor store, and paid an older gentleman to buy us beer and wine coolers. One of the best days of my life. We spent 30 minutes at the fair then drove to the lake to drink and swim. Looking back, we could have killed ourselves. But we didn’t.

The box contained a scrapbook, high school yearbook, various letters and birthday cards. There were also old photos of me and my first love, Tarik. We met in 6th grade. He pulled my bra strap in class and I punched him in the face for doing it. Oh, those were good times.

Maybe not, I got suspended for punching him and he served in school suspension for pulling my bra strap. In 8th grade he finally declared his like for me. We went to the 8th grade dance together. It was a magical evening…no, really, “A Magical Evening” was the theme of the dance. After rummaging around the pictures strewn on the floor, I found the picture.  

“Oh dear God, I look like a Madonna reject from the Material Girl video. I obviously didn’t have any friends or they would have told me better.”

Picture after picture brought back beautiful childhood memories. A time when life was so simple – no bills or major responsibilities. Nestled underneath the photos of days gone by was a piece of paper neatly folded into a perfect square. The ink had begun to bleed through the weathered paper. I carefully opened it up:

My Goals for Life

Become a marine biologist

Buy a BMW

Own a house with koi pond in the backyard

Get married and have 3 kids

Live happily ever after

As I read the list, I recalled the day I had written it. It was a stormy Saturday afternoon. The lights had gone out; my parents had lit candles, and we were all huddled on the couch. My dad had asked me what goals I had set for myself. I was a junior in high school at the time. When I responded I hadn’t given it much thought, he made me get a piece of paper and pen to write down my goals. After two long hours of self-reflection, guided by him asking me a series of questions, I was able to come up with this list. I didn’t read him the entire list, I left off the part about getting married and having children. In all honesty, I didn’t add points 4 and 5 until later that evening when I was alone in my room.

I stared blankly at the list. Goal number 1, NOT realized. I wanted to go away to school in Florida to pursue my dream of working with sea life, but my mother could not bear me leaving home. Even though I would only be four hours away. So, I settled on the local university and got a liberal arts degree in philosophy.

And can you guess what the job outlook is for philosophy majors in a city with a population of about 200,000? You guessed it, not very good, as a matter of fact, it’s terrible. I am an administrative assistant at a doctor’s office. I love my jo-…let me restate that, I am glad I have a job where I like the people.

Goal number 2 – NOT realized. I drive a 2005 Nissan Sentra, thanks to my financial backers, Ma and Dad. I dare not complain about ol’ Sally the Sentra. She runs great and I don’t have a car note. I don’t think I need to go into detail about goals 3 and 4 seeing as how you already know I live at home with my parents. And no, there aren’t any male prospects in my life at this time. Don’t ask, it’s a long story, but I still have hope.

Goal number 5 – NOT realized. I am not in my happily ever after. I am in my “I am glad to be alive” ever after. What happened to that little girl with all the big dreams and plans for a bright future? Why did I allow my mother to hold me hostage in this house?

I can’t blame my mother. If I would have pushed the issue, she would have let me go. I allowed fear of the unknown to prevent me from pursuing my dreams. I did this to myself. I became comfortable with my life. I was never one to venture out un-coerced. I had become dependent on my parents so much that I trapped myself into this way of living. My bedroom with private bathroom had become my cell. Albeit a well decorated cell. Tears began to cascade down my cheeks.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” I said to myself. “My life has got to change.” After 20 minutes of hard, ugly crying, I cleaned my face and walked downstairs. My mother was still watching tv. I sat down next to her. She glanced over at me instantly noticing my puffy, swollen eyes.

“What’s going on baby?” she asked.

“Ma, I am reclaiming my time.”