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other recent LOUNGE articles:
o Home/work
o Say it with Spraypaint
Painting 101
Make it Mosaic!
Estate Sales 
Open House 
Hammock Heaven 
Makeshift Vases 
o Newlyweds' Nest 
o Variations on a Theme 

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home sweet homes  
by Yee-Fan Sun |
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continued from page 1

Which was what made it so weird when, back home at last, I suddenly realized that I no longer felt at home living there.  My mother cooked the meals, my father did the dishes, the bills got paid without me ever having to think about it, and for the first time, I felt like a guest.

Maybe I was just a little late in coming to terms with the inevitable, a late bloomer in the independence aspect of maturity. At a certain point in every young adult’s life, there comes a point where you suddenly realize that your parents’ home doesn’t feel like your home anymore, and for me, that moment of awareness didn’t arrive until that summer after Australia. It’s a little sad, a little exciting, and very scary when you realize that somehow, somewhere along the path of growing up, someone’s cut the umbilical cord without warning you. I was twenty-three years old and I felt homeless. At my parents’ house, I had history, sure, but staring up at the same Tom Cruise poster that had been hanging above my twin bed since puberty was, to be perfectly honest, making the future look somewhat depressing.

But that miserable year in Australia hadn’t been a complete waste; I’d seen a glimpse of how lovely it might be to set up more permanent house with my boyfriend Asher. We were nowhere near thinking marriage at that point, but making the leap towards long-term cohabitation – now that sounded mighty appealing. What made taking that step just a teensy bit more difficult was the fact that almost immediately post-Australia, Ash had up and moved away from Boston and out to Tucson, Arizona, to begin the long, long process of getting a Ph.D.

My first glimpse of Tucson was of brown, bare earth, stretching seemingly forever beneath my plane as it made its final descent into the Tucson International Airport (and by “international,” they mean planes fly out to nearby Mexico). The ground looked painfully parched and the plants, what few there were, seemed sad and straggly, like nature’s undernourished rejects. The city itself was a never-ending sprawl of identical, eyesore strip malls, chain stores mingling with porn shops, a denser concentration of fast food restaurants than I’d ever seen in my life. I was significantly less than impressed.

I lasted four months before making the big move nonetheless. 

don't stop: still more this way!


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