I’m an Adult at 58: Now What?
From the time I was twenty-three, wide-eyed with wonder, and moved to my first apartment, a basement studio, in Woodside, Queens, I have been a proud New Yorker. All these years later, I still think of myself that way, even though I moved back home to the small town in Massachusetts where I grew up, back in September.
For years, I had eyed my parents’ small lakeside property and hoped to have it one day. However, as a lifelong surviving artist, I never could have made the move without an odd confluence of events last year: my parents, now in their eighties, were ready to unload it and wanted me to have it (I was the only one of the four children that ever used it with any regularity); I was able to negotiate with my siblings (we technically owned the house in a trust) for a family discount; I had inherited a small sum early in the year that allowed me to at least get close to a down payment; and, oddly, the pandemic did not wipe out my “day jobs” (adjunct lecturer and medical editor) and actually allowed me to save money for several months.
Nevertheless, I had always envisioned having it as a seasonal place, the way it’s been for decades. I never wanted to leave New York. But after sitting down and working out the numbers with a friend, he helped me to realize that by leaving the city, I could buy it outright as my permanent home, purchase a car, and still pay less than my monthly rent, even with necessary insurances.
And so, I packed up all my belongings and said a teary goodbye to the city I called home and, in fact, still call home, even though my official address says otherwise.
Some will say I fled because of the pandemic. Not at all. I don’t think I’ve ever loved New York more than in the middle months of 2020. From the nightly banging of the pots in the spring to the bustling Parisian-looking streets of my Bay Ridge neighborhood, as restaurants made the best of outdoor dining, to the long summertime walks along the waterfront. Looking one way, I could see the majestic Verrazano Bridge; the other way, I saw the Statue of Liberty framed by the silvery canyons of Jersey City on the left and Manhattan on the right.
What I did not envision was a Closing that continued to get delayed well into winter because of, frankly, poor service at the bank and also further inspections and repairs needed to winterize my little cottage.
A mere twenty-four hours after finally Closing on the property, my pipes froze (heat was fine, but there was a lack of good insulation, which I could not get until I owned the place). I turned off the water and was thankful for no broken pipes. But then the water pump cracked and sprayed water all over the crawl space under my home. An unexpected cost added to the planned springtime repairs, such as a new roof, the insulation, and a new deck.
I’ve never had children, but now my car is my child. (I’ve even named her Bridget, as a tribute to Bay Ridge and the bridge — get it?). I worry about the car payments and the insurance, and where and how I park, and rising gas prices. I never once thought about these things in New York.
As for the house, it’s a never-ending worry. My driveway is small but it looms large when there is a snowstorm (and we’ve had several this season). It is most definitely a fixer-upper, and my wish list for the house has grown to tens of thousands of dollars.
With all of this new stress, it’s hard to sit down and write songs, something I was doing regularly for the last few years. It’s hard to contemplate writing another book. It’s all I can do to vocalize daily, and the “free piano” I got from a neighbor in New York (and which I had moved for an extra $500) now sits collecting dust as I glance at it with a guilty feeling every day.
My friends in New England tell me, “Now you’re an adult.” I can’t even believe I’m back in the town I fled at age eighteen. Yes, I fled it then. The school experience back then had been hurtful and I wanted no part of small-town life.
I realize now that I was fleeing the small-town version of adulthood. Owning things? Is that what it’s all about?
All those years in New York, I managed to get decent apartments in decent neighborhoods. The entire city was my backyard. I never needed more than 400 square feet of living space. I worried about getting an audience for my gig, getting enough students to sign up for my workshops, wondering if what I wrote was any good. In terms of budget, the big decisions were asking myself if I needed cable, or if I could cut back on eating out and Broadway shows. Did these concerns make me less of an adult? Or a smart adult?
Look, I know my new home will be more fun this summer when I’m entertaining guests for barbecues and swimming. The time spent with my parents in their final years is simply priceless. I also know owning a home is a great investment in the long run; waterfront property never declines in value.
I’ve learned so many things in the past several months. Namely, I never wanted to be an adult, and what’s wrong with that? But here I am, an adult at 58. What’s next?
