Society loves to sell a woefully uncool, verging on tragic, image of still living at home after a certain age. Like a game of snakes and ladders to adulthood, moving out being one step closer to the A-word.
But, as the economic effect of Coronavirus chokeholds Generation Rent, with job security enjoying a holiday in a land far far away, many millennials have no choice but to move back in with their parents and set up camp in their teenage bedrooms. Waiting, ever so patiently, for normality to resume, so they can live their independent lives once again.
Across the Insta-sphere, I’ve noticed a lot of introspective chat of feeling “stuck”, “have taken a step back” or mocking having mum and dad as roomies again, like they’re a nouveau Sid and Nancy. Truthfully, I love living with my parents. Throughout my twenties (I’m now 29), in between house shares with friends, I seem to gravitate back to home sweet home. Months drag on and I never want to leave.
Why? It’s a passive aggressive-free environment. I like that I don’t have to pretend to be in a good mood all the time or cook a meal together like this is somehow the marker of being The Best Housemate (I’ve only mastered one proper dish so this is, thankfully, rarely an issue). And I love hanging out with my mum – she’s my best friend, the funniest person I know. Also, a great listener, and I’m sure one of the reasons I’ve yet splashed out on therapy.
Sometimes we both half-heartedly ponder whether “we need to have more boundaries?” But then, no, we don’t. This is how it’s always been between us. And why should we change that? To fit a more traditional mould of mother-daughter? No, thanks.
Long story short – I’m moving out again to live with a close friend in September and I’m more than a little bit sad about it. Who knows for how long. I now view life as a rolling contract. Though, for me, living with la famille (minus my brother and sister, sorry siblings. PS. I Love You) has always been the best deal.