A taste of growing up

My sophomore year is quickly coming to an end, and with this I have began the process of the terrifying and thrilling house search. Six months ago I could only dream about the process and very easily skim over the reality of living in a house which my parents did not also reside. Can I really be old enough to make this decision? Signing the lease in next few days will be one of the first legal documents which I will be bound to with complete independence. I can not explain the absolute terror of so much responsibility.

But I will admit that with this heavy burden of bills that I can not possibly yet comprehend, I am also discovering the joy of having a key in my own name. I have not yet filed my taxes, but have somehow managed to secure a house that will place me in the category of Adult.

With this new freedom, I have begun to search through various thrift stores, garage sales, and antique shops for items to fill my house which I have appropriately christened "Little" (it’s quite a small house). On one of these searches, I discovered a deceivingly enormous Antique Emporium tucked away at the corner of a strip mall. Walking inside gave me the feeling of inertia, with an endless expanse of aisles cluttered with uniquely displayed treasures. I was absolutely, irrevocably astounded by the amount of "things" with which I was confronted. In one corner I picked up a cigar box stuffed with gloves, each with distinct styles to portray their decade. Some were off white lace, dainty and frail, one pair deep crimson leather with the words MADE IN ITALY fashionably printed on the cuff. I pulled this particular pair onto my hands and felt a sudden realization that all of the antiques surrounding me had a history, they each stored secrets and character. I also noticed that if I chose to purchase anything in the Emporium my bank account would whine tremendously.


We put such a value on something that has aged, a collection of comic books, a whiskey bottle from prohibition or a trunk that sailed across the ocean in the late 1800's. Why do we not place the same value on our relationships; what if I could look at each person I meet with the same intrigue and excitement that I see a first edition copy of "Pride and Prejudice"? Just a thought.