After spending three months in Los Angeles teaching summer school and mooching off my parents, I returned to Austin on Monday with both a heavy heart and a twinkle in my eye.  It's back to my own apartment, my own laundry and groceries, and relative quiet.  I have spent the past few summers since graduation living with my parents and two younger sisters, and I'm always thrilled to spend time with my family and take advantage of the perks (pool, stocked fridge, my mother's closet, the Southern California weather).  But as happy as I am to arrive, (close your ears, Mom) I am just as thrilled to say adieu in August and get back to being able to control the thermostat and the remote control. 

Even though I know that leaving home is the healthy thing to do (at least according to Western values and my boyfriend), I remain ambivalent about making the transition.  It seems that the very thing I miss most about home (the constant companionship of a big family) is what I appreciate most about having my own place--a little P and Q, as my abbrev-loving sister Jillian likes to call it.  A week ago I was shrieking across the house, "Will you all just shut up so I can get some work done?"  Now, the only voice I hear is Rachel Zoe's, coming from the TV I was too lazy to turn off (no Mom here to tell me I'm wasting electricity), and I'm feeling a little lonely.  It feels embarrassingly trite to say, but why is it so hard for me to live in the moment, as Jillian once pointed out to me in a rare moment of Zen.  Why can't I be glad I'm in LA when I'm in LA and be glad I'm in Austin when I'm in Austin? Maybe I should put that on my to-do list, right after buying peanut butter and folding that pile of laundry--and reassuring my boyfriend that I really am glad to be back here...