Bigger and Better?
Written by Erin Norton
Four years ago, I was waitressing at my father’s restaurant, as I always have. It was a sweltering day outside, but I was working the patio that day. It was the kind of heat that only enticed dog owners, southerners, or beach house owning, Lilly Pulitzer wearing people to sit outside. Admittedly, I only get along well with two of those groups. My dad was hosting that day, and lo and behold, he sat a wealthy family in my section. The entire group was unable to stop chattering about their upcoming vacation to Nantucket, Block Island, or some other similar destination. They’re all the same to me (I promise it’ll become clear to you why my tone is so slighting).
I interrupted their excitement with my notebook out, ready to write down their orders with an unwavering smile plastered on my face. I felt the upper corners of my mouth twitch when I made eye contact with the matriarch, who most certainly always sits at the head of the table at every establishment.
“ It’s Erin, right?” It was the mother of one of my peers from middle and elementary school.
I had been fiscally aware from a very young age. I grew up in an all-hands-on-deck kind of family where it was expected that I make my own money, save 80% of it, and the rest was my“ spending money” (which just means it’s to be stashed in the back of a sock drawer, rather than a bank account). This type of upbringing only made class differences more apparent, even from my middle school perspective. I knew from our interactions at school, [Redacted] didn’t want to be friends with me for my strangeness, but it probably didn’t help that I wasn’t a Lululemon or Apple Watch-wearing kind of kid. And now, here I was, the summer before our class went off to college, asking Mrs. [Redacted] if she would like red or white wine with her salmon steak. She clearly had an unwavering and predisposed opinion of me and my family.
Every time I refilled a wine glass or set a different condiment down, Mrs. [Redacted] would gush about her daughter and how she was going to be a doctor one day or the president of a sorority. I expressed excitement for her and her daughter as well. Just around the corner, our lives were going to finally start and our souls would touch more than just the people in small town Vermont. Who would I be to deny any kind of enthusiasm over potential, especially when I myself was experiencing the same feeling. When I was clearing the table of it’s empty dinner plates, Mrs. [Redacted] asked me what my plans were. Not even her wine drunk state could hide her immediate disapproval.
“ An art school?”
“ Yes, ma’am.”
“ And what will you be studying there?”
“ I’ll be majoring in creative writing.”
She made a noise. Something between a scoff and an outright laugh.“ So it looks like you’ll be owning daddy’s place in a few years, huh?”
I procured a laugh from my chest and hurried away with plates expertly stacked on my arm. I never wanted to return to Vermont. In fact, that was my biggest nightmare. 500 words into this essay, I am still scared of that outcome. Even though I am quite literally sitting in my childhood bedroom right now.
About a month ago, I was telling anyone who was willing to listen that I was going to be moving to New York City on the 13th of May. I even threw myself a NYC themed going away party where I dressed as the central figure of one of the most infamous New York City court cases, Anna Delvey. Ankle monitor and all. My Brookline apartment was lined with friends and acquaintances alike.“ Thank God I’m not going home,” I proclaimed both sober and five gin and tonics deep. I think I may have jinxed myself.
The relationship my plans and hopes of the future hinged on failed just a week before my train was going to leave South Station. They caved in like a cake taken too quickly out of the oven. Living in New York alone was out of the question. I had just over $100 to my name. With a subletter already planning on taking over my bedroom in Boston, I had no choice but to pack my bags into the back of my parent’s car and head north. I was heartbroken, unemployed, and most certainly, not in New York City. The three hour car ride gave the what ifs and plenty of time to accumulate in my mind. The most prominent question: Am I destined to own daddy’s place this year?
Sometimes“ bigger and better” morphs into moving back home where the memories from your childhood are now empty buildings with foreclosure signs on each blackened window. But sometimes,“ bigger and better” is simply a state of mind. Thank God I did cognitive behavior therapy for so long, because if I’m good at anything, it’s shifting my mindset and, as the cliche goes, seeing my glass half full. Currently, I’m trying to imagine that glass overflowing. I’m romanticizing the vibrant greens and rolling mountains. I’m relishing in forgotten hobbies from my youth. I’m dipping my fingers in acrylic paint and dragging them across dusted over canvases from the attic. I’m eating three meals a day and journaling with each one. And I’m writing! Living at home is far from perfect, but what a blessing it is to be able to sit down with time on my side and write about it. It’s been less than a week and some mornings I still need convincing that the next day will be different from the last, but the choice is in my hands, isn’t it? Maybe this was the vacation I needed after these four years? If anyone needs a home in Vermont, you know where to find me.
