As time passes on, I start to feel very adult and grown-up about my life; really mature, you know? I’ve been financially independent for over a year now and I haven’t starved or been without a roof over my head even one night. I have not fallen into some financial fiasco involving reckless credit card abuse. I have no wildly humiliating, inappropriate photos or sex tapes circulating the internet preventing any chance of future employment. I am still alive and it doesn’t appear I’ve done anything to totally screwup any possibility of future happiness or success. In addition to this, I have filed my taxes on my own (and in February, no less!), navigated the dreaded FAFSA loan process totally solo, independently piloted the graduate school application, and even more impressive, the post-acceptance process. This is quite the accomplishment: living in the real world and not being totally eaten alive, not wealthy but certainly happy. I’m on my way to becoming a grown-up, or at least the closest version of a grown-up I will ever be.
I admit, I can’t pass a park without testing out the swings (especially when they have long chains extending endlessly upwards allowing the swinger to go really high) or trying out the slides (especially those that are extra high up and twirly, but not too twirly that it slows the rider down.) I enjoy nothing more than to curling up with a good book and my kitten in my Little Mermaid sleeping bag. I own, and wear, a pair of red with white polka dot, button-up, footie pajamas. When roasting marshmallows I typically resort to catching the puffy mass aflame and eating a blackened treat because I’m too impatient to slowly roast it to perfection. I have a propensity for skipping when excited, and turning the occasional cartwheel when I’m outdoors and the grass is particularly green and springy. I also admit to my affinity for young adult novels and children’s books, and that I eat mostly the diet of a toddler. And sometimes, sometimes, I even make a pouty face and cross my arms when life doesn’t go my way.
All that being said, I still feel quite proud and adult like at the end of the day. Then I have moments like tonight. Moments where the search engine bar in my internet browser reads, “Do you have to cook a sweet potato?” because minutes before I eagerly cut into a raw one and anxiously tried to scoop out its contents into my mouth. Moments where, after discovering that yes, indeed one must cook a sweet potato prior to consumption, I had to look up how one goes about cooking such a food. Then, out of all of my options of cooking appliances (convection oven, microwave oven, oven oven), I actually select the microwave. Finally, after semi-successfully cooking my food, I’m left wondering, “Do I eat the skin?” After all of my shining adult moments, occurrences such as these happen and I feel incredibly childlike. (Seriously, do you eat the skin?)