It’s the worst month of the year, when stickiness dampens the already roasting air. During most summer months, stepping outdoors in Dallas is like opening an oven and getting blasted with a faceful of burning, dry heat. But when hurricane season ramps up, the humidity can creep all the way into the northern part of the state, and the weather takes on a new dimension of unbearable.
It’s the worst month to be in Texas, yet here I am for the second year in a row, voluntarily spending week after week in nearly unlivable conditions.
Last year, I made the trip in a last-minute haze of grief after losing my dog, Phillip. As I paced my apartment in the hours after his death, I saw every corner, every piece of furniture, as a place from which he was missing. His ghost lingered everywhere. That’s his spot on the couch. That’s his spot under the table. Those are his stairs that he climbs dutifully every night to be closer to me in bed. Suddenly, the space — his space — was horribly empty, and the silence pounded in my ears.
So, I ran.
I suppose I was running this year, too, only not from anything in particular. I was running just to run.
My parents had signed on for a ridiculous two-week African safari (ridiculous both in the sense of the trip’s extravagance, and the concept of intercontinental travel mid-pandemic to parts of the world that don’t rank highly in health or safety). I was against the trip (particularly when they started running through scenarios of “what happens if we die,” “what happens if we can’t get back into the U.S.”), but they were committed. When they asked me earlier this summer to housesit and dogsit, I agreed, my mind instantly flickering between the possibilities that this setting presents.
August is brutal here in the endless, sprawling suburbs of North Texas, but there is goodness, too.
At the top of the list are my sister and niece, who live just 10 minutes down the road from my parents. Brooke and I text and FaceTime regularly, but after long stretches of living in near-isolation, it’s grounding and healing to spend time with my best friend in person — to go out to dinner, shop, stay up late on her couch chatting and playing MarioKart. I feel myself grinding back into something resembling a human. I’ll go so long without people that I forget how to interact. I forget that I need it, even if the acclimation is slow and painful.
Then there’s Hendrix, now 2.5 years old, who is a tiny bundle of energy and giggles, and always the center of attention. She’s more fashionable than the rest of the family put together, knows the name of every animal and the sound it makes, jams equally as hard to “Let It Go” as “Bubble Butt,” and wants to be Mike Wazowski for Halloween. Every time she greets me by name (“Hi, Paige!”), asks a fully formed question (“Can I go outside? Where is the moon? Is Mommy at work?”), or uses impeccable manners (“You’re welcome!”), I marvel. This tiny human used to sleep in the crook of my arm like the world’s most delicate football, and now we read books together and identify all the characters on “Paw Patrol” from the living room fort where we’re having a sleepover. Everything is more exciting when I see it through her eyes.
There are also many advantages that come from staying in a house rather than a one-bedroom apartment: a spacious shower I actually have enough room to shave my legs in; a backyard complete with lounge chairs, thriving plants, a bocce ball court, and space to run; a reclining leather sofa to read on; an entire laundry room; and a sun-drenched kitchen with marble countertops that take up more square footage than my entire kitchen and living room combined.
In my parents’ kitchen, food is always plentiful and delicious. At home, I scavenge, delaying grocery store trips until all that remains in my fridge is mustard and pickle brine. To splurge means spending $10 at Taco Bell and devouring it in the park before the hoards of geese catch a whiff of my Crunchwrap Supreme. But at my parents’ home? The fridge could be stocked with towers of Tupperware and takeout containers, nothing older than a few days, and my mother will burst into the kitchen after an afternoon of errands with hundreds of dollars of food spilling out of the reusable tote bags that swing from each arm. (She doesn’t “do” leftovers.) With enough food in their home to feed a family for months, my parents will still end up ordering pizza or going out for Tex-Mex four to five times a week. I spend a month gaping at the abundance, but unfortunately, my horror doesn’t prevent me from taking advantage of chips and queso or sea salt chocolate truffle skillet cookies.
The amenities and food are more than enough “payment” for managing my parents’ home while they’re away. I might even say it’s too much if not for their sick, elderly dog who wakes me up every hour during the night, and whose meals require more preparation than my own.
By the end of my stay, I am raring to get back home — but then, that’s kind of the point.
When I left Colorado, I felt lost, stuck. Mid-summer depression had settled over me in a warm, sleepy wave of apathy. I was driven by the old, familiar itch to escape somewhere different in the hopes that it would shock me back to life.
It has, and it hasn’t. A change of scenery can be nice, but what makes a real impact, for better or worse, are the people. Having someone to laugh with, fight with, eat lunch with, exchange “good morning”s and “good night”s with … The deepest trenches of the emptiness inside me quietly fill up with something solid.
Naturally, though, staying at your parents’ house gets tiring. My dad and I cohabitate easily, particularly when it’s just the two of us in Steamboat, but my mother is another matter. Being around her is difficult, period — but in her home, she can exert control and enforce impossibly high standards. Even robots are no match for her OCD; she’ll run the Roomba three times a day, following it around to monitor its performance and sweep up any specks of dust it missed. Imagine being a human, inherently doomed by the evidence of life your fingerprints or hair leave behind.
The challenges of existing in my mother’s orbit could fill books, and the challenges of living in your parents’ home as a working adult are too mundane and common to necessitate an explanation. (I’m not used to getting permission to go out, they’re not used to someone wearing sweatpants at 2 p.m., and so on.)
After three weeks and one day in Texas, the moment finally arrived when I realized I was looking forward to returning to my life in Colorado. It’s September, the time when things start over, and I don’t have any more plans to travel until the holidays. (We’ll see, though.) Uninterrupted months at home no longer feel like a death sentence, but an opportunity. I could join a fitness class, a writing group, a hiking club. I can decorate my apartment for Halloween and cook adventurous meals. Nothing has changed, not really — but this time has brought what I want (and don’t want) into sharper focus.
And I think, one day, I want to stop running. I don’t mean stop traveling and exploring, but perhaps not feel the need to flee town every time I’m struggling, depressed, or seeking a new perspective. Lacking roots is getting lonely. Between Steamboat and Texas, I’ve spent far more days living out of a suitcase than I have sleeping in my own bed this summer.
In many ways, spending all this time away from home is my excuse not to get involved or meet people — just as the pandemic was my semi-valid reason the year before. But it’s really just me creating then imposing reasons why I shouldn’t. I’m terrified of commitment, but I’m also approaching the point where this fear is edged out by my fear of spending the rest of my life drifting and lonely.
It’s too soon to say whether there will be a third August in Texas. Perhaps by then, I’ll have a reason not to run.
