Americans Can’t Decide What It Means to Grow Up
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Recently, someone I’m close to made a confession: He felt embarrassed to still be living with roommates in his early 30s. I assured him that was absurd, but given that I also live with two of my friends, I knew what he meant; I’ve noticed the same societal clock ticking, and I’m a few years younger. I don’t feel pressure to find a spouse or start a family—my social circle is filled with single people, the prospect of homeownership seems laughable, and I can’t keep a spider plant alive, much less a human baby. But I watched as more and more of my peers start to rent their own apartments. So I search for studios online, balk at the prices, and shut the tab.
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