"Our house...in the middle of our street."

I was struck by an overwhelming sense of superiority today when I flipped open the most recent issue of the New Yorker and saw an essay by Jonathan Franzen. It was, in fact, the same essay he had read aloud at Pomona over six months ago. It wasn't as funny as I'd remembered, but maybe that's because the phrase "smuiked some duip" just doesn't have the same impact when it's written down.
The lack of posting this past week was due to a very welcome change of scenery. I write this from "my" house--yes, it's actually my professor's, and it's not even going to be exclusively "mine" in a few days, but those are minor details. What's really important is the lack of jackhammers, the big bed and the fully equipped kitchen. And the towels. I don't know where she got them, but I'm sure as hell going to find out.
I had literally just moved into the house when I found myself a host to my friend from home and her boyfriend, who stayed for a couple of days. It was fun--I showed them around Claremont, the LA area, and the beach--but it also made me feel ridiculously mature. Correction: I felt like an impostor adult, like a kid trying on Mommy's perfume and lipstick, knowing she might come home any second. I thought back to the character of Kitty in Anna Karenina, who, at my age, was expected to keep her household in order even while pregnant with a child. Could I do that, I mused, if I had to? And when will I stop thinking of chores like dish washing, grocery shopping and dinner cooking as play-acting and accept them as part of an everyday existence?
Fortunately, this feeling dissipated when I went to dinner at my friend's grandparents' house and was treated like any normal teenager would be. I realized that my adolescence might be coming to an end, but at least I've still got a few years of adultescence to look forward to.