The Lemon Life | online magazine offering a fresh perspective on post-grad life.

Words by: Krista L. Illies

Image by: dichohecho

Of all the standard small-talk questions, Where do you live? seems to be an increasingly popular choice, and understandably so.

Asking someone which neighbourhood they call home isn’t particularly invasive and it summons a simple response, which can – in Toronto anyway - reveal a lot about someone’s personality.

That is, of course, if you actually live somewhere. When you don’t live anywhere this question becomes a lot more complicated.

Like anybody would after four years of university, an eight month post-grad, and a two month unpaid internship, I had certain expectations for what was to come next. I figured I would job-hunt for a few months, land a full-time position in my chosen, albeit precarious industry, and in no time at all move into my own place downtown.

And yet there I was, months into my pathetic excuse for a real life, barely getting contract work and dreading that question more and more with every acquaintance I made. I didn’t have the succinct answer that you’re supposed to have, but rather an awkward, nervous laughter-inducing spiel that usually began with, “Well, my things live with my mother…” and ended with “I’m a nomad.”

How do you explain to someone you just met that your life is in such complete disarray that you’re unemployed and crashing nightly with friends, family, and your boyfriend? And more importantly, how can you justify that kind of lifestyle to yourself?

In my case, I was clinging to the fact that any employment opportunities I had on the horizon, and nearly all my social obligations, required that I stay in the city and not with my mum, which I knew was always an option. True as it was, those justifications didn’t grant me much comfort as I wandered around town, questioning what the hell I was doing with my life.

The one upside was that my hosts were endlessly generous - we all know it was their open-door policies that got me through the last year. But while I was never made to feel badly about the inconveniences I know I caused, the day I finally signed my own lease was the day I escaped the truly hellish existence only perma-houseguests know.

Always, and I mean always, carrying around a disgustingly heavy bag, containing a minimum of three changes of clothes, a second pair of shoes, your toothbrush, makeup, deodorant, laptop, computer charger, phone charger, and umbrella (to name a few items) all at the same time is bad enough. Having to keep all of that crap in a tidy pile on your friend’s apartment floor and stressing over every little please and thank you, just in case you’ve overstayed your welcome, is downright depressing.

As unrealistically optimistic or naïve as this may be, I’ve always been someone who not only believes that everything happens for a reason, I need to believe everything happens for a reason. How does anyone wake up in the morning and live their lives without this belief? My stress about money, lack of work, relationships, and the constant worry about where I was going to lay my head down every night literally gave me anxiety attacks. All I could do - all any of us can do – was think forward and try to brainwash myself into thinking that somehow, some day down the line I would figure things out.

Now that I’ve got work I’m just barely scrounging together some semblance of a real life, but at least I know the struggle and exhaustion were worth something. All of those ridiculous daydreams I had - of entertaining my hosts, of mere privacy, of having my own fridge to stock and of having all of my things living with me under my own roof - have actually come true.

So to those still living the nomadic life, I have only two things to say - good luck and remember to always pack a Swiss Army knife with the rest of your crap. You have no idea how often it’ll come in handy.

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