Each month, Sloane’s funny frankness echoes the experiences of young people and their choices.
As you all know, last month was a particularly trying time for Walter, Crosby, and me. After the dust settled from dealing with the Crazy Pants roommate, I realized my unhappiness in Tallahassee runs deeper than roommate problems. Therefore, I recently made the executive decision to cut my losses in Tallahassee and move back home to Miami.
Maybe I’m being a little hard on Tallahassee. It does have its perks. If I need an illegal prescription, I just have to knock on a neighbor’s door. If I need a bail bond at 5 a.m., there’s a 24-hour bail bonds office down the street. If I need “Dwayne Wade’s number shaved into the side of my head” there’s a man named Rob at Clippers who will do it for me “half priced.” Yeah, that’s an actual quote.
A couple months ago, I wrote that I felt like I could be doing so much more with my life.
If I moved to Miami I would attend Florida International University to study Early Childhood Development (I swear I’m oddly great with children), work at Gymboree teaching babies how to sing and dance, and move into a fantastic apartment with the love of my life, Paul. I would have it made.
What I never understood about college until I decided that I was ready to leave it was that the majority of students are broke kids living rich lifestyles. I don’t speak for everyone but I currently live in a two-story townhouse with three other roommates, two of whom drive very nice European automobiles, never run out of food or expensive imported beers, and go to sleep every night not having to worry about where their next paycheck is coming from. That’s because they don’t get paychecks. Their parents fund their lifestyle 100 percent.
I come from a privileged family just like they do. The difference is I come from a family with a crazy, overbearing patriarch at the head. My dad, I love him, but I’ll always be 5 years old in his eyes. He is so afraid of letting me make the same mistakes he and my mother made that he exercises full control over all decisions regarding my life. He never even pretends to listen.
In high school I told him I wanted to go to NYU and study theatre. I ended up at University of Missouri studying magazine journalism. After a year of constant blubbering to him on the phone, he let me leave. I told him I wanted to go to art school in Miami. He sent me to Tallahassee to study advertising. I think there may be a correlation between my unhappiness with the schools I’ve attended and his unwillingness to let me decide what is best for me.
After school ends this semester, I’m going to tell him my big plans for the future. “Dad, I’m leaving the school you’ve wanted me to go to for six years. I’m quitting the major that will probably give me a starting salary of $100,000 and instead I want to become an underpaid kindergarten teacher. Oh, also, I’m moving into a sin den on Brickell with my boyfriend. And I’m pregnant.” (I figure once I tell him I’m not actually pregnant it will be easier on him to digest the rest.)
So that’s my plan. I’m going to stand up to him for the first time and let it be known that I, Sloane Rose Solomon, am going to be living my life under my own rules!
P.S. This might be the last Scrambled column I ever write because I may or may not be strangled to death by my own father. Thanks for the memories OUTLOUD!