Being an adult is waking up on a Saturday morning with the distinct feeling that you haven’t slept enough… and ignoring that feeling, because there are fun things in store (you hope). It means sending text messages whilst being half-asleep and yet making 100% sure that not a word has gone misspelled.
It means crawling out of bed less than an hour before you have to catch your ride -fueled solely by the knowledge that there was a distant part of you, last night, that thought this would be a good idea- and settling into the second bed: the one your roommate put in the living room (because the big windows make the whole thing magical, and what the hell) and lie there watching YouTube videos while scooping mango sorbet into your mouth with the slow determination of a snail.
It means realizing you’re late half an hour after you were aware of it, and putting on the same outfit you wore last night (you’re leaving town today anyway: no one will ever know, and last night was spent sitting under air conditioning anyway) while trying to mask your frantic dressing behind a calm “I’m on my way” on the phone and hoping that the whooshing sounds of the hairbrush sound a bit like cars on the street. It means having a great day with your friends anyway; friends who are kind enough to forget the fact that you’re usually late to outings and you like talking about cats a lot.
It means going to that same freakin’ restaurant for what must be the fiftieth time since you’ve lived here, and not saying anything, because your friend is new in town and she’ll probably like it (even though that small place down a few blocks mixes their vegetables much better than they do here). It means realizing that you’ve been here for four months already and deciding to try a new meal for once, and realizing that it’s actually better than the stuff you’ve had before (the Sprite still sucks, though), and ordering way more of it than you can possibly eat… so you take the leftovers with you. And, finally, it means engaging in the traditional sweet-if-slightly-irritating argument about who will pay, while trying to keep yourself from squealing with delight at the adorable kittens that are walking around outside.
It means crashing a meeting and giving your opinion with sincerity and confidence, and being willing to learn; remembering the things you used to do with your friends at home, and the things they’ve said and done… and realizing how amazingly lucky you really are to have had friends like them.
It means carrying the leftovers of your sandwich from lunch and finishing them in the evening, because good food won’t go to waste. It means separating yourself from everyone to say prayers on your own and admitting to yourself that you don’t love the world nearly as much as it deserves to be loved. It means writing poetry in the Shrine and listening to soundtracks in the surrounding gardens, because no one can judge and they don’t know what Howard Shore does for your soul.
It means socializing afterwards and ensuring it doesn’t sound forced, and admitting when you’re uncomfortable, and admitting that you aren’t likely to cook pumpkin scones tonight like you had originally planned; let’s go eat pizza instead.
It means going home exhausted but satisfied, and dressing in those knee-length jeans for work (it’s night shift anyway, so no one will mind the informality), even though you have the niggling doubt that it might be too cold for the next morning, when winter is approaching.
It means using your breaks to indulge in small pleasures like Doctor Who and tumblr, and calling your friend on the phone to discuss the theory of globalized education, because she gets it, and somehow it’s okay to question yourself and all the decisions you thought you would make… because it just shows that you’re still growing.
It means finishing work at 7 a.m. and having ramen for breakfast in the office kitchen, because you have a dentist appointment that was luckily rescheduled for 8 a.m. instead of 9:30 a.m. (you don’t want to stay up any longer than you absolutely have to), and yes it’s raining rather forcefully and you’re wishing you’d decided on something that brings more warmth to your legs rather than baring your shins to the stormy winds, but oh well, there’s still mango sorbet left at home and man, this is how I’ve decided to live and I absolutely love it.
Disclaimer: I have been an adult for a total of ten months, twenty-three days and eighteen hours, so I’m
probably definitely not an expert when it comes to being an adult; take everything with a grain of salt you should probably just read this as comedy and not as what my actual concept of adulthood is.