The Third Degree

No this is not about my undertaking more study (something which I have told Mr BG to NEVER allow me to do again).

When I moved out of home at the ripe old age of 24, I was looking forward to my time alone as I said earlier. Yet I spent the first night of imdependence crying myself to sleep in my beautiful little flat. I missed home, I missed my parents and even my annoying brothers, who were promptly sizing up  the dimensions of my room and deciding who was going to move in.  Above all, I missed that comforting ,yet at the same time claustrophobic sensation of being asked “What are you doing? Where are you going? Who are you going with? How are you getting there? What time will you be back at?”

This had been going on since the dawn of time. It seemed to escalate a bit when I became old enough to go out with friends, and really ramped up when I finally had a boyfriend. When I arrived home late, I had to go in the front door, as it was right outside my parents’ bedroom, and they would know I had returned. I often heard the bed creak as my dad turned over as I crept down the hall. My mum said to me later ‘You father would only fall into a sound sleep when he heard the key in the lock.’

Even though I was heartily sick of it, I still missed the third degree. I would still get it when I arrived home (and still do when I visit), and it was annoying yet comforting at the same time. It was my parent’s way of indicating they cared; I would often do they same thing, thinking that that’s what everyone did.

Not exactly. It’s been the cause of a bit of grief over the years, with friends and loved ones. I have been called nosy and told to give people space and to mind my own business. It’s a habit that is hard to unlearn, as I feel  rude and uncaring for not asking.But I’m trying.


2 thoughts on “The Third Degree

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