As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up. I envied the mommies and the daddies, the doctors and the lawyers, the happy adults. I was so excited to stand on my own two feet, pay my own bills, and look after babies. How freaking stupid was I? Now, as an adult…who has literally nothing that I just described, I am here to tell you, being a grown up sucks. I’m barely standing on my own two feet, paying my credit card bill each month is more painful than losing my virginity, and I have no baby (or man who could give me one) to speak of. It’s shitty. And the shittiest of all? I don’t even feel like a grown up. For whatever reason, I expected that the moment I crossed that graduation stage, I would literally, spiritually, metaphorically, metaphysically, and whatever meta-else become an adult…but that didn’t happen. I still feel like the same old me. Honestly, it’s like I’m Peter Pan right now. You know, if Peter Pan had to buy into Medicaid.
1. My Skin
I’m closer to my mid-20 than not, meaning that my first year as a teenager is more than a decade behind me. So why, why, why, God, WHY am I still breaking out? While I certainly no longer have the skin of a hormonal teenager, I still occasionally suffer from that one spot that makes me revert to pre-teen behavior (i.e. sprawling out on my bed like a starfish while hysterically crying and blaming my mother for every problem I’ve ever had in my entire life) and it just isn’t fair. Quite honestly, I should really be past this point in my life, especially when you consider the fact that I’m also at the age where I’m expected to start worrying about wrinkles. Essentially, my face is covered with a combination of Clearasil and anti-aging cream every night. No wonder I sleep alone.
Either you have children or you have to sit at the children’s table. Apparently there is no in-between. And you know what? That’s not okay. I don’t know when this divide happened between the haves and the have nots (of babies, that is) though I’d be guessing it was around the same time as “Ring By Spring.” Having birthed an alien should not be a prerequisite for being considered a grownup and I’m tired of being treated like a toddler simply because I do not have my own. Shouldn’t there be some middle ground between being a baby and having a baby? Like…I don’t know…your 20s?
I’m finally making money, but some guy named FICA is taking all of it. While I understand the importance of paying taxes and not engaging in conversations with Ron Paul supporters at bars, it’s still pretty infuriating to be buying into a system that will likely never benefit our generation. I make just enough to be paying some pretty heavy taxes, but not enough to where I can easily bounce back from that check to Uncle Sam. HOW is that fair? Our country is broke — and now I’m broke too. I don’t like it.
I still have the appetite of a young tyke, meaning that I want to eat chicken fingers and Spongebob Kraft Mac and Cheese, but not have to deal with the repercussions of black work pants that no longer fit. Every time I enter the gym, I’m reminded that I am no longer the nimble bodied athlete I once was…but I’m also too young to enjoy such activities as water aerobics or ballroom dancing. I’m stuck between a world of Flintstone vitamin gummy dinosaurs and calcium supplements. Also, what am I supposed to wear? It feels inappropriate to wear Nike shorts and a college t-shirt, but what about white tennis shoes and high socks? Do I hold my hair back with a bow? A scrunchie? Is it time for the “mom” haircut? Oh, God. I don’t know where I stand.