I have always wondered when I am supposed to start paying attention to stories my mom tells me. I listen to her when she talks, but in recent years I have tried to ask more questions that don’t directly benefit me, because someone will have to pass on her legacy once she inevitably dies. This isn’t a sad thought, or one that keeps me up at night, it just seems like the logical next step in my life.
“You and your siblings all get things from me that I absolutely love, but you also get things from me that I hate,” she said last time I visited her. “Like, I love that you take adventures, and you totally get that from me. But I fear you’ll wake up one day and wish you had done anything to prepare for your future.” Then she started talking about when she lived in Germany, and I stopped listening.
This is not new to me. My mom has been saying, “One day you won’t be 25,” for forever. It is the reason she thinks I should do things like build my credit or put money away. To this, I respond, I’m not 25, why are you talking to me about being 25?
In recent months I have been talking to my mom a lot about what I’ll do after this summer, when my current job ends.
“I just don’t get why you have an aversion to getting a legitimate job,” she said.
“I’m not, I could deliver papers,” I said.
For this reason I was excited to tell her when I made a decision about my fall plans. It all came to me one morning.
I am done with winter, I said to myself while wiping snow off my boots. I need to move to Los Angeles. The only problem is that I hate shipping bicycles.
“Want to go on a bike ride with me,” I texted my friend, Kloe. Kloe is the type of person who is always down for anything, and her presence makes everything significantly more fun.
“Sure! Where?” she responded.
“California,” I said.
And now Kloe and I are biking to California.