Back in the day, when I was even more confused about what I wanted to be when I grew up that I am today, I took the Myers Briggs personality indicator test. The results indicated that I ought to become an air traffic controller. Or a bonsai tree specialist. But mainly an air traffic controller.
I never thought that this rather grim prognosis would come true. Then again, I never thought I’d be back at home and living with my parents at 26.
As far as parents go, Landlord and Chauffeur are pretty cool. Additionally, there are obvious advantages to living with a pair of responsible adults (my mom went grocery shopping last week, for example, and the tissue crisis has since been solved) but there are also some obvious disadvantages, co-ed sleeping arrangements being one of them.
Growing up, I was allowed to have to have a boyfriend (once I hit sixteen at least) but I was only allowed to spend time in my bedroom with said boyfriend if the bedroom door remained open.
Ten years later, I’m still following this rule (and The Wedding Date is always banished the guest room when he comes to visit) but I’m a bit more brazen than I was at 16. And a bit more creative. And a bit more destined to be an air traffic controller.
The no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule, you see, applies not just to me but to any unmarried guests that come to stay at Casa Richter— not because my parents are particularly draconian, mind you, but because I made a big deal about it several years back (it seemed to me that if I had to suffer, everyone else should too) and now it’s basically written in stone.
Actually, it’s written in black ink and affixed to the doors of the guest rooms every New Years Eve: Single Ladies Headquarters on one side of the hall and Single Gentlemen’s Headquarters on the other.
(And yeah, I know I’ve screwed up the apostrophes there but I’m running late for work and I can’t be bothered to figure it out.)
At any rate, like I said: I’ve gotten more brazen in my old age. The minute Landlord and Chauffeur went to bed this past New Years Eve, I unleashed my inner air traffic controller and sprung into action. Rounding up all of my unmarried-but-nonetheless-involved friends, I redistributed them amongst the various guest bedrooms hissing, “You two go downstairs. And you two: you can have the Single Gentleman’s Headquarters once everyone else has cleared out.”
The Wedding Date, who is several years my senior, was greatly amused by all of the shenanigans—especially the next morning when I slipped out of bed at 7:00am to make a dash back to the Single Ladies Headquarters (aka, my actual bedroom) before my parent’s woke up.
“It’s like a jail break,” he laughed, “except you’re all trying to get back in!”
“Shh!” I whispered, “You’re going to give us away!”
We made it (or so I like to think; it’s quite possible that Landlord and Chauffeur knew all along despite my innocent why-yes-I’ve-slept-here-all-night face…) and I’m starting to re-think my previous aversion to a career as an air traffic controller. I mean, I managed to orchestrate the dispersal of nearly half a dozen couples across four floors, in pitch black conditions.
Just think what I could do with one of the tripped-out flashlight things and a reflective vest! There’d be no stopping me.
In the meantime, I’m intrigued by all of the crazy rules people have to keep their kids (even grown up kids) from getting jiggy with it in the parental abode and I know I’m not the only one who’s dealt with this sort of thing, so: do tell.