I live with my parents. I am thirty-three years old and I live with my parents. I am thirty-three years old and I’ve never lived on my own.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. For one, I have a job; two, I have a girlfriend.

We both live with my parents, my girlfriend and I.

I am normal, I think, in all regards except for the fact that I still live with my parents. I read somewhere or heard somewhere not long ago that more and more adults these days live with their parents. It is comforting to know that I, that my girlfriend and I, are not in a league of our own, so to speak.

I think it’s important to clarify that my girlfriend and I live with my parents by choice and not by necessity. We are not helpless adults, my girlfriend and I. We both work and between us make enough money each month to live on our own if we wanted to. But we don’t want to, at least for now. We are comfortable living with my parents. Things aren’t bad.

We are comfortable living with my parents and we are also saving money this way. And my parents like having us around all the time. They really do. Honestly. My girlfriend is an excellent cook. She has tons of cookbooks and makes dinner for the four of us almost every evening. My parents and myself are always praising my girlfriend’s cooking as and after we’ve eaten. I do the dishes pretty much every night.

My girlfriend and I do these things, these chores so that we don’t feel that we’re taking advantage of my parents’ hospitality. My parents’ hospitality knows no bounds when it comes to family. My mom has become so close with my girlfriend that she thinks of her as the daughter she never had. My dad is always making me try these specialty beers he buys at the market. Things are not that bad.

The real reason we live with my parents, my girlfriend and I, is that we wouldn’t be able to save much if anything if we didn’t live with them. Yes, we both work, but neither of us makes all that much money. Our jobs are not exactly high-end jobs. They are respectable, our jobs, as all jobs are in their own way, just not, well, the most affluent.

Rent prices these days are astronomical. Even for a studio. I know because I check the weekly paper every week. I check Craigslist daily. I talk to people all the time. Everyone says the same thing when I mention how much my girlfriend and I are willing, can afford, to pay for a place of our own.

“Keep looking,” they all say.

And we do.

My girlfriend and I haven’t lost all hope, though our standards have noticeably dropped over time. We’re starting to think that a tree house would do nicely enough, or a cabin so tiny we couldn’t stand up straight inside. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday sooner than later we start talking about houseboats and RVs like they’re all the rage. Actually we’ve already talked about houseboats and RVs some. We came to the same conclusion that they are not in fact all the rage.

So, who knows? Maybe we’ll always live with my parents. Maybe when my parents die the house will become ours, my girlfriend’s and mine, and we’ll never have to leave. It’s a nice house. A waterfront. I don’t really want to leave. My parents bought the plot in the seventies for forty grand. It must be worth quadruple that now and more.

If the house became ours, my girlfriend’s and mine, I’d then be able to say to whomever, friends if they came over, that I’ve lived in the same house all my life.

That would be a riot, wouldn’t it?

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Photo credit: “Little Red Tree House” by KaCey97078 via Flickr, used under Creative Commons licensing.