Right here, right now, I’ll put a fiver on the answer, “I still don’t feel like I’m an adult…and I’m [ insert respectably high number here ]” being a curiously popular answer to this particular prompt.
‘Cos surely I can’t be the only one?
Sure, there will be those who go for the traditional The Day I Got Married / Had My First Child / First Voted / Bought My First House options… But in all honesty every single one of these milestones pretty much left me as childlike as before… And here I am, a 42-year-old woman who feels no differently than she did when she was 15.
I’ve largely avoided the trappings of adulthood. Some might say that there’s some deeply repressed psychological reason for that, rooted firmly in childhood trauma. Others, without lots of capitalised letters after their name, might ( slightly more succinctly ) say I’ve just lost my marbles. I beg to differ. It’s not that I’ve lost my marbles. I firmly believe I have my full complement of them, it’s just that mine are probably different to yours. And a couple are inexplicably cuboid in shape.
I have no interest in small talk at dinner parties to further my career. I sold all the shares in my “financial portfolio” and most likely spent the money on something entirely frivolous.. buggered if I can remember. I bought a house, I sold a house, and I spent most of the intervening time avoiding dusting it.
I’m not irresponsible. I’ve run a business, consulted with solicitors and been a single mother. Admittedly, motherhood *has* aged me, and continues to do so every single second of every day, but that’s only because I’m not terribly good at it. Put to a vote, however, I’d say the majority of my offspring are “moderately satisfied” with the service, or “very satisfied” after a liberal application of chocolate.
So… will I ever realise I’m an adult?
Obviously, I *know* I’m an adult right now, I’m not stupid. It’s pretty hard to avoid reality when you’re neck-deep in it and it smells like a workman’s sweat-slicked and distractingly hirsute butt crack on a sunny midday in the middle of summer. I just don’t like it. I don’t want to lose the childlike part of me that still runs to the window to look at a rainbow , or will stoop to give a snail a gentle prod in one eye just to watch it retract it and give me the snaily equivalent of a “withering curse” scowl with the remainder. Once that awe for life, love and beauty is gone you don’t get it back. Being “adult” doesn’t mean failing to stop and smell the flowers. It means failing to see the flowers in the first place.
What sort of idiot would trade that for car payment installments? Talk about losing your marbles…