As I type, a cavalcade of Craigslist consumers are inspecting my 1999 Camry.
Since I’m moving off to college soon, my father decided that our family’s fleet needed an overhaul. Pretty much the deal is that instead of unnecessarily having 4 cars we will now have 3. Some shuffling took place, and now my car will be sold.
It was never a truly great car. My college football prospect friend managed to warp the suspension into leaning towards his usual spot, we put about as much money into the car as we paid for it, it smelled like sweaty teenager (probably my fault), and it had a whole bunch of electrical and transmission issues.
However, it’s almost fourth quarter, I’m entering my final season of high school sports, my parents are prepping for me to leave, and my 1999 Camry is just another casualty.
Mom got a new (used) car out of the deal, I took her old car, and now a bunch of people from Craigslist are getting their nasty butts all over my prime suede seats.
Things are getting weird and the last child is getting pushed out of the coop.
One of the Craigslist pictures I had to take.
I’m a second semester senior, I’m filling out the college papers, I’m prepping to leave, and my parents are pretty thrilled.
I thought getting a dog was about as drastic as the change would get, but my parents are all about this new life as empty-nesters. Except they’re not empty-nesters because I still live in the house.
Freud did a study that shows how last children fear change, and I certainly hate it. (That’s not really true about Freud but it might be)
Recently, the big thing is the home improvements. Improvement is a relative term.
Dad got rid of all the trim and fixtures in the house, which were brass, and now they’re all black. My world is spinning.
Also, the dining room which hasn’t been touched in the 18 years I’ve been in the house: PAINTED. The 90s blue wallpaper has been replaced with a double coat of paint, a new rug, and no more brass fixtures.
As far as style goes, it’s all good, I don’t really care. I’m just getting freaked out by all this post-child-in-house life.
If they touch the basement I’m running away.