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Seven years ago, in an overpriced apartment in Westwood, my stomach was churning from fear. Fear from my Mother’s reaction when I asked her how she would feel if her daughter moved in with her boyfriend. I was 22, mostly sheltered and came from a fairly strict home. Over the previous weeks I slowly built up the nerve to ask her during one of our phone conversations. When the time came, I didn’t use some cunning segue, nope I just went ahead and asked that small question.
Me: So... How would you feel if me and Z moved in together?
Then she said something that has resonated with me years later...
Mom: Jessica. You are an adult so you are free to do what ever you want. But, if you find out you have made the wrong choice, don’t come back and complain about it. You made your bed and now you will have to lie in it.
Relief cleansed away the guilt and basically I continued our apartment search minus the worry of my Mom’s thoughts. I have thought about that conversation often because it best encapsulates one thing that has annoyed me as I have gotten older: how right my Mom has been about everything (even when she’s wrong).
Last Thursday I turned 30. If you spoke to the 27 year old me about this date I would have whined about the last days of my 20s. Outlook is a funny thing. My twenties were a complicated mix of excitement and worry, envy and content. From fruity cocktails, beer and Jager to cocktails, beer and wine. Confusion and guilt. I got my degree, got married, started new jobs, was laid off, found my path, and had lots of fun. Nowadays I think back on mistakes as detours. Yes, they take longer but sometimes you discover something that would have never crossed your path otherwise.
No complaints. No regrets.