I may be living at home. But that doesn’t mean I can blow twenty percent more than I have to here when I’m not even sure I want to do this. No, strike that: I’m fairly sure I’m not going to like this.
It’s a distinction worth nothing.
But I often feel this way at first.
I’m often right.
I knew living at home with my parents, in rural Nova Scotia, where unemployment is climbing (currently sitting at 10.5%), where I have no hope of working in my field, where I have very little hope of developing a social life, where I’m going to have to live with my parents (more on this later), where my old car won’t cut it on the poorly-kept mountain roads (potholes almost as bad as Montréal—and that’s saying something), I knew I wouldn’t like this.
Three months and a bit into the experience, I’m right.
Okay, if we’re being technical, I’ve lived in rural Nova Scotia less than that. Ten days after we committed my mother, I ran away to Eastern Europe to eat street food among other things.
I’ll get to my mother later.
First, I need to put my face online.
Sitting in front of my laptop, in the unfinished basement bedroom my parents have decided belongs to me, I’m calm now. I’ve also successfully managed to find my credit card (the one that has credit), and inserted the numbers into the field without backing out (this time).
I click the button. I pay the man.
My headline to lure the men: Over educated and a little bored. We can only fix one of these things.
Like that Lincoln Town Car did when I was eleven, it hits me: I’m now paying money to look at men. I’m sure, shame hot, fingers burning like the element is on, brain firing off signals, I’ve make a mistake.