To the casual observer I am a gown up. I’m thirty, own my townhouse and dive a sensible Buick sedan. I eat my vegetables and keep track of my IRA. But on the inside I’m still a kid. The thought of a monster lurking under my bead or in my closet still scares me more than filing my tax return. I want to go see the latest Disney cartoon in theaters, and even belong to the Disney Movie of the Month Club. I’d rather dress up as Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella or Snow White for Halloween than a sexy witch or Playboy bunny. And believe me; no one wants to see me as a Playboy bunny. I can’t do sexy. Never have and never will.
I still call my mom with questions on how to do laundry, fill out insurance forms and should I be concerned about unusual bowel movements. To be fair, she did call me at work because she couldn’t find the power button on her new laptop. My furnace broke earlier this fall and the first thing I did was to call my mom and ask if the house was going to explode. Basically that’s my main worry when something breaks. Will my house explode? I don’t think that’s covered in my homeowner’s policy.
When I lost my job this summer I called my dad sobbing. He’s supposed to fix this; it’s his job as a dad. But no, it’s my job now. It is my responsibility to pick up the pieces and move on with life. Now my dad gives my mom money to take me to dinner at Abblebee’s. It’s a last meal of sorts before I’m back on the college diet of Pop Tarts and ramen noodles.
When are you supposed to feel like a grown up? It didn’t happen when I moved out on my own, or bought my car or bought my house. Is it when you get married and have kids? But what if I never do that? For all I know I could be rocking the single life at seventy years old and still going to cartoon movies. Maybe that’s the real secret of being a grown up. You never feel grown up at any age. You just get better at pretending.
grownuphood 