I'll Do It Myself

                If you ask my parents what my first phrase as a baby was, I’m sure they’d give a mundane answer like, “I’m hungry,” or “I pottied,” or “goddamnit, Jessica” (we repeat what we hear, right?).  I, however, would disagree and have to say it was, “I’ll do it myself.”  And even if I didn’t say it aloud, I know the words were bouncing from cortex to cortex, unmumbling themselves, trying to carry the weight that they would hold one day; when my mom poured my cereal, when my dad tied my shoes, when my sisters helped me put toothpaste on my bristles, my synapses were screaming, “LET. ME. DO. THIS.”

                It’s the eve of my 22^nd birthday, and I would make a wise conjecture that Taylor Swift was not in my position when she wrote that pop song that will forever occupy the Facebook statuses of all those entering Twenty-Two-Dom who have nothing else wittier to say on social media.  If I were to re-write a few verses, maybe it would go something like this:

“It feels like the perfect night to look over my lease forms,
and sign on the X’s, uh uh, so broke.
It feels like the perfect night, to crash before midnight,
‘cause I got a real job, uh uh, still broke…

…We should have warned you,
get used to feeling 22.”

Or something along those lines.  I doubt it would have received much radio play.

                I didn’t know what independence was until this summer.  I’ve had the, “I’ll do this myself” attitude for years, but during the past few months, I’ve realized it’s hard to walk when you haven’t quite mastered the crawl.  Let’s be honest, up until this summer, I was still shitting myself with contentment and sitting in my Huggies, waiting for mom and antibacterial wipes to come to the rescue (if we’re sticking with the baby metaphor, we may as well not half-ass it).  I have lived in comfort my entire life, and was so busy “claiming my independence” that I failed to face the fact that I had no idea what independence entailed.  You can’t buy it on the emergency VISA that your parents gave you (wherein the lenient, self-governed stipulations state Cole Hahn and Michael Kors as your primary emergency contacts).  Independence is a responsibility.  And a goal.  And a mindset that correlates positively with well-being.  And sometimes gaining it ain’t no stroll in the Lexus that your mom lets you borrow that runs on company gas.  But the paradox is, to find it, you have to say, “I’ll do it myself.”

                I stared at the ad on Craigslist.  To call, or not to call; that is the question.  And depending on the answer, I could A.) be homeless in September B.) have a cozy, albeit very expensive, studio apartment for myself and my little pup secured for a year, or C.) take my chances and let some whackjob with a corndog fetish contact me and ask if I want in on “a super-chronic, 3 br 2 ba apt, HOT GIRLS PREFERABLY**”

(**this was an actual ad on Craigslist.  Minus the corndog part.  That was just an assumption).

I e-mailed my mom immediately.  My mother; the woman who paid to put me through Catholic school K-12, a private college for 4 years, and numerous graduate school application fees and visits  (my dad deserves credit here, as well, but he was the second one I contacted; that’s always been our chain of communication [unless I need a DD, then it’s Dad all the way]).  I sent her pictures of the small, $1,225/month studio in a nice area, only a mile and a half from campus that also happened to be pet-friendly.  I was almost giddy when I sent the e-mail, waiting for her approval.  The response I received wasn’t one I was used to: “That’s great! It’s your apartment, if you feel comfortable paying for it and you like it, get it.  It’s your decision.”

Wait.  What?  I just…I can get it…wait…is there a catch here?  You always make me ask permission for big decisions!  Like, remember when I had to ask for permission before spending the night at Kim Toop’s house after prom, and then after you gave me permission, you called to check to see if I was there, and I wasn’t because I wanted to go somewhere where I knew parents weren’t home and bottles would be poppin’?  Remember that, mom?  I NEED PERMISSION.  I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS MYSELF.

Desperately, I turned to my dad.  He was always the more level-headed and financial of the two Hines parents.  I know he’ll have some reservations.

“looks great.  Love the vids. Up to you.”

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE JUST GIVE ME PERMISSION?!  I need someone to affirm that I am making the right decision.

And then it hit me.  Like a truckload of tequila.

I. Am. An. Adult.  Those words felt heavy.  Like I had just lost something that I had been clinging to for the past 21 years; the security of having every move monitored, every step supported, and most acerbically, all decisions dichotomized by the parental panel before approval.

                This was the first of many adult things (by “adult” I mean, “expensive beyond my means”) I had to do.  And while half of me was scared shitless to sign that lease agreement and send in my first savings-account-obliterating payment, half of me started to feel liberated.  And excited.  And despite the fact that I’d be MC Hammer broke after making all the payments for my new temporary home, I felt a sense of pride and self-sufficiency that I had never experienced before.  Coming from the girl who still makes her mother call the dentist and gynecologist to make her appointments, this was one step closer to being a fully functioning adult in the real world (and hopefully one step closer to sleeping without my bathroom light on).

                The preparation for graduate school hasn’t been easy, nor has the transition.  I think back to 7 months ago when I had my fingers crossed, hoping some program somewhere would see potential (which was especially questionable, considering most of my writing samples included the staples of my writing: sarcasm and profanity) in me.  The day I received an e-mail from Boston University’s College of Communication, ranked 8^th in the U.S., I was driving on IN-62, and started bawling (I know it’s bad enough that I’m checking my e-mail while driving, but what’s even worse is crying and singing to myself “This Girl Is On Fire” while trying to navigate the backroads of southern Indiana).  That’s when I knew my shit was going to get rocked here pretty soon, and I was hellbent on being ready for it. 

                Since my acceptance, I’ve been weaning myself off my dependence on others.  There’s never been a feeling more visceral (and cringe-worthy, at times) than knowing that you are your own keeper.  And I’m all about the nitty-gritty and the down and dirty, so bring it on.  When it comes to my future and my goals, I figure it’s better if I do it myself.  If I believe in my talents, then who the hell can tell me that I can’t?  I’d rather do it by myself.

                So here I am.  On the eve of my 22^nd birthday.  Sipping Oliver Peach Honey wine, and watching my little furball make pee spots on the carpet as I blog.  And you know, I can’t help but be happy for myself.  Because through all the years of guidance, I found independence.  Come September, I’ll have $32,000 sitting in my bank account, and Uncle Sam will be happily draining me with sky-high student loan interest rates.  I’ll have tuition to pay, and rent to make, and groceries to buy and a life all on my own.  And despite my protests, I may even have a little help from my parents—you can call it the Fund for Future Starving Artists.  But no matter what I’m up against, I think this process has empowered me and made me realize that I’ll have to do it myself.