Not long ago, I moved back in with my parents. Gone were the days of loudly inappropriate conversations with friends, questionable houseguests, and drunk-eating leftovers at 4 a.m. Now I had to pass by my 12-year-old sister’s bedroom to get to the bathroom. Smoking weed had to become a clandestine activity once again.
Despite the many years away at college, I felt like I had cycled back to being 17 again—the age when I’d clumsily roll joints near open windows or in the bathroom during a shower, smear fragrant lotion on my hands, carry eye drops, smoke with my jacket off outside shows, or light up only when I knew everyone in my house would be gone for more than four hours. I deeply believed that this code that I devised myself, this set of religiously followed rules, would obscure this very stinky, very obvious proclivity of mine.
That’s some teenager shit.
