Tag Archives: adulthood

What’s in an Age?

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“This is 25” — Hit me up, Judd Apatow

Basically what they tell you in general about age and experiences is you have more of them when you are older, you know, like cumulatively. Which would mean that by the time you turn say, 25, or a quarter-of-a-century-old for us obsessed with their own mortality, you’re just wiser than the average 18-year-old punk because you know, you’ve experienced more. Which if we’re boiling it down, means basically, you’ve now been able to drink legally for four years, and you’re body stopped being able to tolerate heavy drinking, say, 3.75 years ago.

So what makes up 25 years, you ask?

It’s mostly vague memories of every time you forgot something at the grocery store.

It’s 25 reasons why you should have stuck with that whole “science career thing” because I guess science was cooler and more lucrative than you thought in 7th grade. (Bill Nye on Bill Maher, anyone?)

25 means paying your own cell phone bill but still being on a plan with your brother and being extremely judgmental to friends whose parents still pay their bill (I’m looking at you guy-at-work who thinks buying things from Groupon automatically thrusts you into adulthood).

You probably cook for yourself and someone else at this point and you’re probably massively in debt and completely ignorant to how massively in debt you are but at least you’ve started complaining to your friends about how in debt you are (which is better than avoidance, right?).

25 years means you’re actually pretty impressed that you haven’t lost that “child hood spirit” which allows you to still skip in public.

adult25 years is 9131.05 days of not accidentally dying on a treadmill or hopping a fence or using a fork to get your bread out of the toaster, which, let’s face it, good for you. (Side note: Want to be intimately and immediately aware of your own mortality? Google how many days you’ve lived and enjoy.)

25 is the amount of years it has taken you to buy shoes that cost more than $10 a pair.

25 is the age your mom was when she married, had two children, and a mortgage and you still can’t sew on a button.

25 is the age you are when your fiance buys you adult things like a fabric steamer for Valentine’s Day and it’s the best present you ever received in your entire life.

At 25 you have bunions like your Grandma but you still hold out hope that your retainer from Junior year of high school will fit.

At 25 you are no closer to buying a Lumosity subscription to work out your brain but at least you contemplated searching for an exercise ball on Groupon.

At 25, brushing your teeth qualifies as leaving the house.

At 25, the Olsen twins are 2 years older than you but you still watch Full House.

At 25, you’re old enough to tell Miley Cyrus to put that dirty tongue back in her mouth.

In 25 years, you’ve established a larger collection of half-filled diaries and Forever 21 receipts than you’d like to admit (But good times, right?).

In 25 years you’ve learned that paper towels are a luxury for the well-to-do.

At 25 you’ve stopped self-deprecatingly pointing out your grey hairs, because now it really is just sad.

But mostly, at 25, you feel the same as 24 except you’ve just realized you have a year less to show the world how awesome you are. And less time to be famous with your youthful breasts and mostly even complexion (‘sup Loreal anti-wrinkle eye, tone evening cream, I see you on that shelf). So I mean, in the omniscient words of B. Spears, “you better work, bitch.”

Someday You’re Going to Be the Oldest One in the Room

adulthood-brad-pitt-demotivational1Being an adult is assembling office chairs with an Allen wrench until your thumb grows an additional layer of old man skin. It’s the sinking realization that rush hour traffic at 6:30 PM is more intense and resentful  than rush hour traffic at 5:30 PM — the man in a Men’s Warehouse suit cutting you off is more intentionally bitter about the life decisions that brought him to that very moment, being stuck in traffic with you as you suck on your e-cig, playing that Pink song “Give me Just One Reason” with the lead singer from The Format over and over again because Matti will murder you in your sleep if he hears it one more time at home. This is being an adult.

It’s walking into a bar and not immediately crying when you realize you’re the oldest one there. It’s putting on your big girl panties and apologizing to that one person you work with that you have dreams about publicly humiliating even though it should really be the other way around. It’s figuring out the best way to outsmart your insurance so you can pay the lowest possible deductible when you go in for a colonoscopy. It’s coming to terms with having to get a colonoscopy at age 24. It’s accepting the fact that you’re going to hear a lot of people poop in the bathroom at work because not everyone cares enough to find an underused bathroom on the 2nd floor to take care of business in. And it’s learning to appreciate those casual poopers with enough empathy to give a few courtesy flushes as you innocently pee in the stall next door because in the end, we’re all in this together.

welcome-to-adulthood_o_1955335Most of all, however, being an adult is realizing that most things aren’t going to go your way. And you’re just going to have to deal with it. And when someone at work speaks to you like that bitch second grade teacher you still have nightmares about you’re going to have to cry in that same stall you go to for strictly poop business because crying in public at work is unprofessional and you’re not a baby. And when you come home to your apartment to find that your prince of a puppy has had a poop party while you were gone, well you’re also going to have to deal with that (but crying is okay, because you’re home and you’re only human after all). And yeah, maybe you didn’t realize that being an adult would require so much thinking about poop.

It’s accepting failed expectations and tricking yourself into believing it’s never too late (because it’s never too late to start saying it’s never too late).

Like when you have intentions of seeing people over the weekend outside the confines of the barely functioning heat box you call your computer because your trying this new thing where you “break routine” and do things you normally only watch people do on television, like go to work Happy Hours and take a shower more than twice a week.

But then adulthood pays you a visit by asking you, “were those two pieces of pizza you siphened from Matti tiny adorable bite by tiny adorable bite really worth it?” And of course they weren’t because now your writhing on the couch like your trying out for the lead in the Exorcist. Friday then turns in to “remind Aly why being adult is more than casually going to drinks with friends” day. And this of course, only happens when you have grand plans to meet and exchange hilarious stories with the amazing people behind the blogs you read at an awesome event called Blogger Interactive. And you’re going to cry on the couch about it as Matti asks, “are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital because your pain tolerance really scares me sometimes?”

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Being an adult is realizing that time is not going to magically multiply, allowing you to complete the tasks that are actually important to you, like say, writing posts for your blog. And you’re actually in charge of your own life now. Which means choosing to buy a half gallon of coconut milk cookie dough ice cream is ALL on YOU and you have to deal with the repercussions. It’s appreciating the small things like when you finally get health insurance and your doctor uses the phrase “stupid anemic.” It’s realizing that not every single thing you do is going to be flawlessly brilliant and witty and that you still need to try to be a successful, compassionate human being. People will forgive you for your imperfections, mainly because they’re too worried about how bad they will look judging you.

Being an adult is finally accepting yourself for the flawed but hilarious person you are because at this point, what choice do you have?

Keep Your Imagination; It Makes You Look Cooler

Teach me how to Heely...

Teach me how to Heely…

While at Thundercloud Subs the other day, a future punk strolled by on Heelys, forcing Matti (my nicer half) into a mini rage: “I fucking HATE kids with wheelies, I wanna clothesline them every time.”

I wondered what it was about Heelys that make so many people upset–you know those magical wheels that pop out of what seem to be normal shoes but are only socially acceptable for kids to use (because normal adults just rollerblade). It reminded me of a story I would tell the third and fourth graders I worked with about flying:

“Hey guys,” I pulled them aside as if to say I’m going to be cool now so you loudmouths better shut up, “I want to tell you the story of when I almost flew.” As Adam* began leading the group in a makeshift Gangnam Style routine I decided to try again.

“GUYS! Did you ever think maybe you could fly…”

Peter* was interested. He loved when I got into this mood and also when I was silly and talked with a lisp: “Can I have a ssship of your sssshoda for ssshussshtenance” was his favorite.

As their little, creepy eyes focused on me I told them how I used  to stand on my picnic table and flap my arms super fast and jump off.

“I swear you guys, I got a little higher every time.” And then I dropped my mic on the floor and walked away. 

Whenever I told the kids this story they half looked at me like I was crazy (which was fine) and half like I was the coolest person in the world. Who could blame them? As upper elementary schoolers they were entering the prick stage of adolescence where make believe wasn’t exactly cool anymore. Well, I want make believe to always be cool and I wish I still believed I could fly. Also, stop playing Minecraft on Gameboys you assholes (Okay, Minecraft is actually better for kids than most of those games).

So I think the hating on Heelys thing has something to do with us adults being super jealous of kids and losing our own sense of wonder. And no, letting your child still believe in Santa Claus doesn’t mean you still have a sense of wonder–it means you’re just like every other person that celebrates Christmas.

It may also be the fact that kids on Heelys are often punks that fly by you in the grocery store, forcing you to drop an Amy’s Chili on your bunion toe. I would laugh in Matti’s face if he were to start rolling around Whole Foods like an overgrown pre-punk with facial hair, but would it be that jealous kind of laughter where secretly you wish you were the one people were laughing at? Definitely yes. Always yes. I want to be the person rolling around in Heelys in Whole Foods, forever. Envisioning this makes me happier than most things.

Who knows, there could be an adult Heely gang out there I don’t know about and that makes me super happy. Let’s all jump off picnic tables together and roll off into the sunset.

How do you keep your wonder as an adult and would you join my Heelys gang?

*These names are made up due to the fact I don’t want to be sued.