Truth be told I get annoyed with every second person telling me to “stay in your parents’ house for as long as you possibly can”.
Why? What have I to gain, as a 21-year-old Astertjie who shamefully still lives here in Witpoortjie, with my (grandmother-included) parents, siblings and pets?
In the past few years being a teenager, student and fairly fresh employee, I’ve had enough absolutely wonderful experiences in this somewhat giant house. I’ve had a sleep over with one friend drunk and one friend high, listening to AC//DC all night and dressing up for our own entertainment. I was so frightfully awake following some alcohol abuse that I comforted the usually-unreachable high girl in her unexpected fit of tears until 7am the next morning. This other guy, a skater and guitarist and my then-best friend who went on to become a journalist and editor strummed away at some Rise Against songs in that living room. We both did. I can’t even think what else I listened to at that stage in my life … oh, maybe Litterbox?
I’ve hosted some wild parties there complete with my parents’ consent and all. At the braai area where I held my Star Wars-themed 19th birthday I was the Darth Vader that Queen Amidala near-poisoned by pouring bottles of tequila into my Yoda Soda and playing too many games of kings with me. I’ve also had that sleepover-turned-sour, the discomfort of bringing certain friends home and the seeming ignorance at who Astertjie is.
All in all I found love there, my heart was broken there, and I found myself brave enough to leave home after I completed Monash. I’ve since looked at apartments to the painful realisation that I can’t afford them alone.
Then a somewhat perfect experiment came my way, without my meaning to initiate it. The feisty fiancée friend of mine called saying that her dearest is in Angola for work and that I must come over, she refuses to stay alone. Yes! I thought. Can’t afford the apartment right now but I sure as hell can go drink to my heart’s content in Wilgeheuwel for a few days. My temporary residence. So wrong, love. So very, very wrong. Firstly, fiancée is on a diet — meaning she threw out all the sleepover food and replaced it with gallons of water and fruits, no vegetables. I was able to convince her to buy vegetables on one of these nights and came to the shocking realisation that vegetables, yogurt, fruit juice and a few pieces of chicken is trés expensive. The next morning at 7.10am, I became aware of how much of the R300 worth of petrol in my car I’ve spent driving to-and-fro between the office and her place (which is not within a 3km radius of my parents’ house). Nearly all! There goes my petrol budget, blown on a few days’ driving. Yes, petrol prices will decline again one of these days with say 15c, but I promise you, 10 days later it’s up with another 50c.
I also cannot depend on the household stock of toothpaste, shampoo, washing powder, dishwashing liquid, milk and bread. Here, we buy our own — and oh, how much it is to buy.
The next person who says it’s wise to stay with your parents I’ll tell that I know. I know, because I made the decision by default (can’t afford peanuts with R3 ‘n maand) and because I tried independence, and frankly, it sucks in comparison. I know that nothing will feel as great as leading your own life and making your own decisions and I know that nothing is as comforting as your mother finding your missing sock, reminding you to take a jacket and serving you all the veggies you desire. Besides, those extra randjies I didn’t spend on toothpaste, washing powder and rent I’ll use to study with next year, to put a deposit down or to make a preliminary purchase of a fridge or washing machine for that dream flat. Although the experiment continues and I really am having a wonderful time staying with my close friend, I’m shameless about living with my ‘rents otherwise.
