The Talk

So I recently turned twenty five.  Fighting off the unenviable task of having to slog through a mid-life crisis, I decided to make a list of twenty five things I want to do when I'm 25.  While that list currently stands at four things (hey, stop judging me.  It's harder than you think), the fourth item on that list is to start blogging.  What can you expect from this?  Musing, ponderings, and raw thoughts from the mind of a gifted and witty (and humble) guy who thinks he's got the world figured out even though he still lives with his parents and just recently learned how to grocery shop efficiently.  (And, judging from the last sentence, you can also expect some killer run-on sentences.)  Please feel free to use this as entertainment.  I will not be editing before I post, so I apologize for the some-what rambling style...

Anyway, the long awaited first blog post: The "Talk"

So, there are many types of talks that one is entitled to growing up.  Most of them come from your parents.  All of them end poorly.  Here is my life leading up to my most recent "Talk."

The first talk comes out of nowhere, when your innocent wondering of where babies come from leads to information you're just not ready for.  For me, I was seven years old sitting in McDonald's with my brothers and parents, and I asked how I was made.  My brothers shifted uncomfortably, knowing what was coming, and, with their wide and pleading eyes, silently begged my mom not to go through it.  My dad, normally the leader of the pack, left my brothers out to dry and slunk back in his chair.  Now, my mom, having already raised three other boys, was a veteran at this.  I was given a (now that I'm looking back on it) way too detailed explanation WITH DRAWINGS ON A MCDONALD'S NAPKIN about how babies were made.  There was no doubt about the birth cycle for me after that.  Talk number one: Check.

Talk number two: Probably the second toughest talk on this list.  Kids, hide your eyes, but Santa isn't real.  I discovered this in fourth grade when that little bastard didn't get me a dog.  Unfortunately, when I finally put the pieces together, I couldn't just tell my parents I knew he was fake.  Having already gone through a horrifying "Santa is actually us" conversation with my older brother, my parents steadfastly refused to bring it up and ignored any and all hints that I knew.  So, for two years my parents played a chess match about whether or not they were going to shatter the 1% of me that thought he might be real.  When I finally cracked in sixth grade- it was tough to hear it confirmed.  The worst part of this is when they gleefully tell you all their little secrets about how they played Santa  and your childhood shatters before your eyes.

The third talk comes around 15 or 16 when your parents finally realize that you're no longer a sweet innocent little child.  Or at least its supposed to come.  Due to my extreme lack of game, my parents felt pretty comfortable just riding the bench on this one.  From what I've been told, it goes along the lines of, "Sex is bad but sex is good but don't have sex but if you do don't have babies we love you be safe."  Anyway, for better or for worse, I was spared what is supposed to be the most awkward 15 minutes of every teenagers life.

The most recent talk I had with my dad wasn't like any of these.  It wasn't as eye-opening as the first talk.  It wasn't as earth shattering as the second talk.  And it wasn't anywhere near as awkward as the third talk should have been.  It was just a frank, matter of fact talk that can best described in four words.  No More Free Rides.  Before you judge me, I had been in New Orleans supporting myself for two years and just moved back to Maryland (and at the time, jobless) in the summer.  However, when I was in New Orleans, because I was doing something good with my life (at least in my dad's view), he spared me the cell phone, health and car insurance expenses.  I am eternally grateful for that.  But man, it doesn't make you feel any better writing the check.

As I calculated the cost of my life and attempted to steady my hand as I was writing a check out to my dad, I was juggling the cool feeling of finally being 100% financially independent, and the horrible feeling of joining the adult table in life.  And then I realized I still live my parents.  With no rent.  So I guess we'll go 80% financially independent.  Maybe next year.