WTF, Adulthood

If adulthood starts at eighteen, then I’ve spent the last seven years walking around awkwardly and hoping no one notices that I don’t quite belong. I mean, let’s be serious. If life were a movie, I’d rather just keep watching the previews than the main attraction and we’re all trying to avoid the end credits.

But I can’t actually be an adult can I? Because I kicked off being an adult by going to a porn store and laughing at dildos and penis-shaped lolli-pops (although, to be fair, penis-shaped lolli-pops are still funny). With that track record, I continue to be baffled that anyone gives me access to narcotics and lets me use needles on people.

Adulthood is that pinnacle that we gaze at from afar when we are teenagers rebelling against authority. You can do whatever you want when you’re an adult! Which, really, is the best thing about being an adult.

Oh, you want to wake up at 2 PM, never change out of your pajamas, eat two packages of Oreos and watch seven hours of “How I Met Your Mother” on Netflix? Congratulations! 

You’re an adult and no one can tell you that’s a epic waste of time and a poor source of nutrition!

Go on with your bad self!

  

Adulthood is served up with a heaping pile of responsibility, which can taste either like the sweetest ambrosia or the foulness of canned mystery meat.

I recently bought a house and I got to decorate it anyway I wanted. I had no parents telling me what paint colors to use, what furniture to buy, what window treatments I could or could not have and what pictures I could or could not hang.  I could have bought ALL THE THINGS and I’d have nobody to answer to but myself.

Same goes with food. I can buy whatever I want! If I want a freezer full of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, I can have a freezer full of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Sadly, my freezer is mostly filled with frozen fish, waffles and Lean Cuisine’s (YOLO?).

But the point is, green beans and peas will never grace my pantry because I don’t want them to.

Since we’re talking about groceries, can we talk about the stupid sense of accomplishment I get after putting all the food away? Like, I’d love nothing more than to have someone pat me on the head and go, “Gee, what a well organized pantry!”

Pictured: accurate depiction of the sense of accomplishment I get

Okay, so we’ve determined adulthood is good for staying up as late (or early) as you want; eating whatever you want; buying whatever you want and basically living a YOLO-esque life.

But there’s a dark side to responsibility.

For one, money is important and in order to get money, you need a job. And sometimes jobs blow harder than a hurricane. In all honesty, I do love my job, but if I won the lottery tomorrow, I would quit my job so fast it would make my manager’s head spin.  

Then, with all your hard-earned money, you have to spend it on water, gas, electricity and food, which makes you nostalgic for a time when your parents provided everything for you. Man, those were the days.

And then, to add insult to injury, after the government takes about 75% of your paycheck and you’ve used another 22% for food and heat so you don’t freeze to death in the winter, you’re left with 3% to have fun with. This equates to roughly $4.00.

You can’t even buy a large jar of Nutella for $4.00.

On top of all that, you’re somehow supposed to save money for a future where you’re too old to work anymore.

As I rapidly approach an age in which I’ll be closer to thirty than twenty, I’m hungry for the kind of innocence and carefree nature of childhood. I’m nostalgic about everything that was good in the 90s, especially Ecto-cooler Hi-C (don’t lie, those were awesome), Nsync and not having a care in the world other than “God, I hope mom doesn’t make meatloaf for dinner.”

But I think the biggest thing is, I don’t feel like an adult. I feel perpetually about seventeen, which I am so not. I'm getting more and more, "GET OFF MY LAWN" with each passing year. 

People think being an adult means you have all the answers, but I don’t have answers. When things break, my drains clog or I need handiwork done around my house, I call Dad, because Dad is an adult with answers. Or at least tools. Same goes for Mom, except Mom is the go-to for all things cooking, decorating and "how do I get this stain out?"

Maybe one day I’ll actually feel like an adult.

Until then, you can find me eating corndogs and watching Disney movies.