Teenage Kicks: Laundry, junk food and bills - moving out of home isn't all it's cracked up to be, but boy, is it a lot of fun, writes Edwina Egan
For years I had threatened to move out. It was a screamed promise when my parents had the cheek to ground me and I considered it unjustified. It was a muttered grumble when I was told to clean my room. It was said to sweeten my Dad when I was attempting to cadge money from him and he asked what was in it for him. It was used as an apology when even I admitted that my grounding was justified and merited; a feeble promise to make amends in the undefined future.
After 18 years of threats to my parents and promises to myself, I took the plunge and, the day I finished my Leaving Cert, I moved out of home for real.
By nature I'm an idealistic person. It's my one idiosyncrasy. They often say when dreams become reality, you find you liked them better as dreams. My dreams of flying solo were certainly different to the far harsher reality of independent living.
The beautiful pros came with a bucket-load of cons. My dreams didn't feature the complex and daunting task of doing my own laundry. They didn't feature male flatmates who leave toilet seats up. And they certainly didn't feature those odious demons that are bills.
I had planned my summer, blinded by blissful ignorance. I pictured a bohemian lifestyle, filled with organic foods, yoga and intellectual conversations. I would arise early, go for a jog, breakfast on fresh fruit smoothies and then write a spot of poetry or a perhaps a best-selling novel.
I had overlooked my inert laziness and my hedonistic desire to be destructive. The image of a bohemian lifestyle does not in any way convey the sheer effort needed. I had perceived it to be a beautiful existence where everything flowed and made perfect sense. Upon reflection, I realised the "teenage waster" lifestyle is far more appealing. Why in God's name would I go for a jog in the morning when I could lie in bed until it was time for work at 7pm? Why have a fresh fruit smoothie for breakfast when I could reheat pizza or make microwave popcorn? And why would I write poetry or a novel, a task that clearly requires thinking, when I could be watching Big Brother?
The intellectual conversations are limited to whether I should have children with Russell Brand or Cillian Murphy and whether a judge would see the disappearance of Sophie Anderton as a crime or as a contribution to the good of society (I believe the latter). Reality TV is the highlight of our days. It's shallow and pedantic, and I absolutely love it.
Many would perceive such an existence to be utter hell, but I and my three teenage flatmates think it's heaven on earth. Granted, there are the negative aspects: bills, laundry, the horrible task of cleaning up after myself, the diet of microwaveable food that will undoubtedly kill me and the ongoing battle regarding the toilet seat. But the freedom it offers cancels everything out.
After years of "Can we keep him?" at every stray animal I encountered, I've discovered I don't have to ask now. After six weeks of independent living, our family has grown. A stray dog called Russell Brand, two cats called Cillian Murphy and Johnny Depp, and two goldfish (Russell Brand the Second and Cillian Murphy the Second) have joined our happy urban family, with no parents to tell me no.
One of the obvious advantages of living on my own was that I could bring attractive men home with me, and again, there would be no parents there. That one fell flat, however, as I'd momentarily forgotten I live in Athlone where flying pigs greatly outnumber attractive men. Subconsciously, I think I believed that the probability of finding attractive men was bound to increase proportionally when I moved out of home. It didn't.
The dishes are piled high in the sink, and we lost the hoover because we brought it "pony racing" around the green in a particularly destructive drunken rampage and neglected to bring it back in. We can see it from the living-room window and we're considering rescuing it.
My parents mistakenly believe that I'd be better off at home where they can supervise me, but they fail to see that this whole excursion has actually been a learning curve. Where else would I learn to use a washing machine? Granted, the house may be a tip, but personal hygiene and appearance will always be top priority.
I learned to boil an egg this summer, something I couldn't do previously. Not that I do it much - microwave popcorn is easier and nicer, but at least I can actually do it.
I'm out on my own, and I'm living life. It's a messy life, it can smell sometimes, and it's most definitely not a wholesome or nutritious one, but it's mine and, in the immortal words of McDonald's, I'm lovin' it.