You know how, when you're a teenager, and you think about what it means to be an *actual* adult? When I was 15 or 16, I thought I would become an *actual* adult once I graduated from college.
Well, May of 2002 came and I graduated from college, with a shiny Bachelor's degree and everything and you know? I wasn't an *actual* adult. At 22, I had a degree and had secured a job and was renting a house that was filled mostly with hand-me-downs and I was still living it up. I decided that *actual* adulthood had to do with a savings account and owning property and was way off in the future.
So in April of 2004, I bought a house. All by my-private-school-teacher's-salary self. No cosigner, just me, signing my life away for a tiny house in quiet neighborhood, big enough for me, the dog and the cat. And even though I had to sign a bajillion papers (have I ever told you about the nightmare of forgetting how to make a K, thus rendering myself unable to sign my name and negating my whole existence? No? Another time, then), I STILL didn't feel like a grown up. It was a tiny mortgage, after all, and I was actually paying less for that than I had been paying rent and it was mine, but I had a lot of help. But then I defined adulthood as having the sort of budget to purchase brand new matching furniture, for taking real vacations and not just bumming off of my folks, realizing I should be using anti-wrinkle creams instead of anti-acne ones. I had a ways to go.
Fast forward through some major life events-- getting married? Still not an adult. Having a stepson? Nope. Not then either. Having my own baby? Surely, oh surely, you are thinking, she felt like an adult when she was 100% responsible for the life of another, her child? Meh, not really. It was sort of like playing house; I never had the crippling fear that I wasn't a good mama or that I was damaging my sweet boy-- I felt pretty confident, in fact. Raising a teenager who, though not biologically our own, has become ours? Again, not really. And the most recent upheaval? Buying a SECOND PROPERTY, because clearly we are insane. Nada. Okay, that last part isn't entirely true. When we bought a second house last summer, I started to feel this pang of something deep in my gut, the pang of Responsibility. And now, as we've emptied our savings into the first house to make it into a rental, our investment property-- our savings, which by the way, could have been used for real vacations and anti-wrinkle creams-- I realize that I am an Actual Adult.
I am 32 years old, though when I look in the mirror, I still see my 22 year old self, with maybe just a few extra pounds. I feel young at heart, even if my body has stretch marks and joints that get a little stiff after a too-long workout. I play in the rain and eat ice cream for dinner with my kids, but offer them salads afterwards. I was shopping today with my two closest girlfriends and I put on this super cute, albeit short, skirt. When I stepped out to show the girls, they both looked at me with the head tilt, trying to figure out exactly why the skirt didn't work and then it clicked: "I'm too old for this," I said. It was true; the tie-dyed ruffled skirt that grazed my fingertips when my arms were at my side was too young for me. Not that I have to be dowdy or plain, but I am someone's mom, I take real vacations and use anti-wrinkle face lotion with SPF 15, I wear a bathing suit with a skirt and make sure we eat enough vegetables. I think 11:00pm is late and sleeping in means until 8:30am. I had a savings account until it was emptied into our investment property. I am, in my stepson's words, A Dult. I have arrived.
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