The Parented Trap

(I've decided from now on, if I post on the weekends, I'm not even going to pretend what I write might have anything to do with telecommuting. I've got too much other stuff floating around in my head that wants to be on center stage. My only fear is that it will then refuse to leave the stage, but we'll see...)

When I was pre-school age, my mother decided to take some cooking classes and dropped me off in the nursery that was provided. For some reason, still unknown to me, the woman who ran that nursery always insisted on carrying me up the stairs when we went outside to play. She didn’t carry anyone else, just me, and I hated that. I was perfectly capable of walking up the stairs by myself, thank you. This, I’m pretty sure, was when I decided I couldn’t wait to grow up and do things my way, on my own. Well, I’m still waiting.

I must present myself as being completely incompetent, because I seem to bring out the parenting instinct in everyone I know. My male friends all become over-protective fathers cautioning me not to run during rush-hour traffic, to make sure my bicycle tires are always pumped, and not to go anywhere alone after dark. My female friends waste their time encouraging me to eat more when I’m already stuffed to the gills. They remind me to check the weather and to pack my umbrella when I’m traveling, and they tend to get very upset with me when I have the slightest sniffle and insist on working.

The year after I graduated from college, I lived in a house with six young men. You’d think at that age, none of them would have had the slightest interest in father-like behavior. My female friends (after inviting themselves to come spend weekends with me) all said, “Lucky you! Think of all the dates you’ll get with all those boys around all the time.” Wrong. Almost immediately, I found myself enmeshed in a web of over-protectiveness. I invited my brother’s best friend to one of our first parties, someone I’d known since he was about three years old. The next day, I was grilled by very skeptical and concerned voices about “That guy you hung out with all night.” You see, he wasn’t one of them and so was immediately suspect. Forget dates that year. No one was brave enough to stand up to the scrutiny of six pairs of eyes in order to take Emily to a movie. (Although it was nice to have a built-in excuse for something at which I’d never had much success.) It wasn’t just dates, though. They always wanted to know where I’d been, where I was going, how much I’d had to drink, why I didn’t take better care of my car, etc. You can see why I only lasted a year with them, despite the fact I was very fond of all of them.

At that age, I was still so fresh from my biological parents’ womb, though, it didn’t really bother me too much. After all, I’d spent the majority of my life being parented. As I began to approach thirty, however, and I still had roommates “taking care” of me (female this time), male friends wondering why I didn’t take better care of my car, and colleagues who insisted on driving me home from work, because they didn’t like the idea of my walking alone, I began to wonder when I was going to be allowed to grow up. And now that I’m well past the age of thirty, it’s becoming ridiculous. I really don’t need people telling me what to do with my money. Quite obviously, I’ve managed quite well for years, keeping myself from becoming homeless without their advice. I don’t need people telling me how to eat. Since I’m neither anorexic nor obese, I must know a little something about it. I don’t need to be told to be careful when I’m in New York. What do they think I’m going to do, walk around in Central Park at night, dressed in a bikini, flashing hundred dollar bills?

So, people have been carrying me up the stairs all my life, and it doesn’t seem they’re going to stop anytime soon. Maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad if only they'd pay all my bills, keep the house clean, and take care of all the home repairs for me as well. Then I’d have more time for my stuffed animals and their tea parties.