regression

Age doesn't matter.  When you visit home, you become the child you once were. 

My sister and I get along great. And if anything, as we've gotten older, we've grown closer. Jean is six and a half years younger than I, so growing up, the difference of six grades in school meant our friends and activities didn't overlap. But now those six years don't matter.  Both of us are now adults (well, sort of).  Yet still, there are many leftover childhood characterizations.

For example, I'm still viewed as the argumentative one (even when I don't think I'm being argumentative at all). I'm still the inept one in the kitchen (that hasn't changed — the only thing different is that Jean has really developed into a first-class chef, able to effortlessly combine disparate ingredients into gourmet meals). And I'm still viewed as the most inflexible one when it comes to time, as in, when to go to the beach and when to eat dinner  (even though we are all equally adamant in our preferences). 

And when I'm with my mom, her natural inclination is to warn me of life's hazards — even the obvious ones. "Be careful you don't trip on that hose." That hose being something that would be impossible to miss. Or a million feet from where I'm standing. 

"You don't drink enough water."  Whether it's true or not, how does my mom know how much water I do or don't drink?

"You need to eat something? Remember that time you didn't have lunch and you almost fainted?" I don't remember anything like that, but my mom does.

And then there's my name. My mom knows I haven't been Linda since I left for college at 18. But still, it's difficult for her to call me Lyn. She tries, but it's not natural for her. Maybe that's the same way my son feels when I call him Alexander instead of Alex.

I'm sitting on the beach with my mom and M. It's a gorgeous day, and one of the things I most love to do is sit in front of the ocean, face toward the sun, good book in hand, and maybe even a sandwich from Dean's. That's how I find myself today. Unfortunately, my mother has already said, "I can't read on the beach. There are too many distractions." I'm the opposite. I love to read in the beach and can easily get lost in a good book. And Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine is one of those exceptionally good books. 

My mom begins a story. I half-listen, with admittedly most of my attention going to Eleanor. All of a sudden I hear, "Linda, look at me when I'm talking." I look up and out of the corner of my eye, I see M, trying unsuccessfully to hide her laughter. 

Age is irrelevant when I'm home. The child within surfaces as soon as I step through the proverbial front door. 

And my guess is that I'm not alone.