"My therapist asked me when you were moving out."
Excuse me.
"She said, you know, that you're 27, you're an adult and you need your own life."
(By the way, my mom always happens to remember her birthday, and not mine. Both happen to be on the same day.)
(By the way, my mom always happens to remember her birthday, and not mine. Both happen to be on the same day.)
First of all, I'm 26. And I won't be 27 for another 40-something days, got it? Actually, you should know that. Happy early birthday, my mom will probably get you a monogrammed leather luggage tag, you're welcome. So on my weekly Saturday phone call with MY therapist, Gil, I recounted the blasphemous remark my mother's therapist uttered. "Whoa, whoa. That's YOUR choice, isn't it?" "YES, EXACTLY, IT'S MY CHOICE." "MY QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS, MY CHOICE!" is my new war cry.
Other than potentially starting an East Coast/West Coast therapist battle, I did something equally as dangerous -- I started to reflect upon my life. "You're an adult..." Marion's words echoed through my mind, as I laid on the bed in an apartment for which I was not paying rent. But am I, though? I have a feeling that I am not the only 20-nothing who feels trapped in a purgatory between being a child, and bearing one. Biologically, yes, I am an adult. I can vote, I can fight in a war, and I can get a degree in Dental Hygiene and audition for "The Bachelor." According to my religion, I actually became an adult at 13. Because I guess that's the age where you finally receive the right amount of Tiffany's jewelry (Note: The amount is "Too much.").
But, it turns out -- and I'm not sure all of you were aware, there is actually a lot more to being an adult that the things I listed above. I know, just as shocked as you are. For example, there are these things called "Bills" and apparently you can't leave them on your kitchen island for an actual responsible adult/parent to pick up and pay. YOU must pay them. They're now addressed to YOU. Remember how much fun it was getting mail up until about age of 22? Now I see and envelope and just pretend it's not there. If you don't see them, they don't exist. This is the only takeaway I got from eighth grade Physical Science. Or was it middle school theater? Once you do pay it, you feel so mighty and in control that you grab that sword in the stone, unsheathe it, and lift the blade to the sun screaming, "I DID IT. I AM A RESPONSIBLE ADULT HUMAN BEING!" But. It's a fleeting joy. Because much like the Hydra, another bill comes in its place the next month, and the next month, AND THE NEXT MONTH. And you soon drop the kingly "No, that's for adults, sweetie" sword, and return to your peasant labor so you can shove a few shillings in an envelope to Blue Cross.
Also, there are those moments where I just feel like a dumb kid. One night, a few years ago in L.A., my car got towed. To those outside of L.A., this really isn't a big deal. It almost got to the point where it was the same hassle as picking up a friend from the airport. Except you can't hold a favor over L.A. County's head. So my car gets towed in West Hollywood. I was out with my friend Alli (no, not Allie or Ali), and we both went over to the impound which wasn't too far away. Inside the waiting area was a belligerently drunk gay couple retrieving their vehicle (that I hope they didn't drive home... actually no, I kind of do...). I approached the window, and this is what followed:
Me: I'm here to pick up a white Prius that was towed from Santa Monica Blvd.
(Guy shuffles paperwork.)
Tow Man: Yeah, I can't give it back to you.
Me: But it's right there, in the lot. I can see it.
TM: I can't give it back to you. See, you have five outstanding parking tickets and are overdue on registration.
Me: But I did my registration.
TM: When?
Me: Last year.
TM: You have to do it every year.
(Pause as I take this in.)
Me: What? Really? Oh.
(The guys waiting start laughing uncontrollably. Alli shoots them an icy glare. Go Alli.)
Me: Well, can I pay off the tickets and then go to the DMV to re-do my registration?
TM: Renew?
Me: Yes, renew, I will renew my registration. Can I pay for the tickets now?
Drunk Guy: You mean, your daddy. Your daddy's going to pay for the tickets.
(Alli was not having this.)
Alli: Excuse me, we're trying to settle this, and you're not helping. Thanks.
TM: You have to pay for the tickets at the West Hollywood Parking Office.
Me: OK, so then I bring proof of payment back here--
TM: Yup, pay the amount--
DG: That you're just going to get from your daddy. You're going to call your daddy and be like 'Daddy, I need money for my car.."
Alli: Hey. Hey. You don't know her life, OK?
I start shushing Alli, not because I was embarrassed by this becoming a scene (we were so far past that, at this point it was like a Tony Kushner week-long festival), but because the drunk gays DID know my life. They did intuit, in their inebriated state, that the first person I was going to call was my dad, and the first words out of my mouth were "I don't know what to do..." Oddly at this point I DID have enough money in my checking account. I was so used to seeing a "-" before my balance that whenever I received an overdraft notice, I just shrugged. "Come on Bank of America, tell me something I DON'T know, like is there a distant relative who died and left me enough money to cover 5 parking tickets and a Prius re-registration?"
Of course I knew what to do next. It had just been explained to me. Did I WANT to do it? Absolutely not. Would I accept help from my parents to get me out of the situation? ABSOLUTELY. I am "Life Lazy." I prefer to stay in a state where I can get assistance. Do you think a baby really WANTS to leave the womb? No. That's why I'm in my baby burrito of adulthood.
Also, there are those moments where I just feel like a dumb kid. One night, a few years ago in L.A., my car got towed. To those outside of L.A., this really isn't a big deal. It almost got to the point where it was the same hassle as picking up a friend from the airport. Except you can't hold a favor over L.A. County's head. So my car gets towed in West Hollywood. I was out with my friend Alli (no, not Allie or Ali), and we both went over to the impound which wasn't too far away. Inside the waiting area was a belligerently drunk gay couple retrieving their vehicle (that I hope they didn't drive home... actually no, I kind of do...). I approached the window, and this is what followed:
Me: I'm here to pick up a white Prius that was towed from Santa Monica Blvd.
(Guy shuffles paperwork.)
Tow Man: Yeah, I can't give it back to you.
Me: But it's right there, in the lot. I can see it.
TM: I can't give it back to you. See, you have five outstanding parking tickets and are overdue on registration.
Me: But I did my registration.
TM: When?
Me: Last year.
TM: You have to do it every year.
(Pause as I take this in.)
Me: What? Really? Oh.
(The guys waiting start laughing uncontrollably. Alli shoots them an icy glare. Go Alli.)
Me: Well, can I pay off the tickets and then go to the DMV to re-do my registration?
TM: Renew?
Me: Yes, renew, I will renew my registration. Can I pay for the tickets now?
Drunk Guy: You mean, your daddy. Your daddy's going to pay for the tickets.
(Alli was not having this.)
Alli: Excuse me, we're trying to settle this, and you're not helping. Thanks.
TM: You have to pay for the tickets at the West Hollywood Parking Office.
Me: OK, so then I bring proof of payment back here--
TM: Yup, pay the amount--
DG: That you're just going to get from your daddy. You're going to call your daddy and be like 'Daddy, I need money for my car.."
Alli: Hey. Hey. You don't know her life, OK?
I start shushing Alli, not because I was embarrassed by this becoming a scene (we were so far past that, at this point it was like a Tony Kushner week-long festival), but because the drunk gays DID know my life. They did intuit, in their inebriated state, that the first person I was going to call was my dad, and the first words out of my mouth were "I don't know what to do..." Oddly at this point I DID have enough money in my checking account. I was so used to seeing a "-" before my balance that whenever I received an overdraft notice, I just shrugged. "Come on Bank of America, tell me something I DON'T know, like is there a distant relative who died and left me enough money to cover 5 parking tickets and a Prius re-registration?"
Of course I knew what to do next. It had just been explained to me. Did I WANT to do it? Absolutely not. Would I accept help from my parents to get me out of the situation? ABSOLUTELY. I am "Life Lazy." I prefer to stay in a state where I can get assistance. Do you think a baby really WANTS to leave the womb? No. That's why I'm in my baby burrito of adulthood.
 |
| After you've tucked me in, can you figure out my life's direction? Great, thanks. |
Alas, there are no forces keeping me in this fetal state. It's by my own volition. Every time I go out and my mom offers me cab money, I decide to take it. Or when I'm sick, I refuse to get treatment unless everything is mapped out for me -- see below:
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| Currently he's in his "office" (storage closet) filing my taxes. |
There's something so comforting, after living 4 years where no one else was looking out for me, about the idea of getting some good, old-fashioned coddling. I hypothesize that I choose to stay in this state because I'm in denial that at some point (NOW) I have to do adult things. And have adult responsibilities. And suffer adult consequences. My self-punishment was hard enough when I murdered my Tamogatchi, due to blatant "neglect." I mean, I just learned to write a check a few years ago. "Forty" is tough because your initial thought is ALWAYS, "there's a 'U,' right?" Bottom line -- if I DO adult things, then I AM an adult, and there's no going back from that point.
But here's the Benjamin Button of it all -- sometimes I realize, I do act like an adult. At my Seder last week, there were a few teens at the end of the table hitting the wine, hard. They wouldn't be quiet during the retelling of the Passover story, and I had the urge to "shush" them. It took every immature ounce still left in me to not do it. I was about to be the Shusher. I was NEVER the Shusher. I was always the Shushee! At one summer internship, our coordinator gave us evaluations and said I earned high marks on everything, BUT he needed to note that people complained I was too talkative. By the way, this consisted of me asking how their weekends were and striking up general conversations... Not like I'm still bitter from that 3 month experience... I am.
I'm also tired. About, let's say... all the time. When I was a kid I used to get so angry when my mom fell asleep in the movies. I would elbow her, thinking "HOW CAN YOU BE BORED BY THIS TALKING BAT IN 'ANASTASIA?' THIS IS LITERALLY THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN UP UNTIL THIS POINT OF MY LIFE." I recently went to the movies and debated whether or not I should sleep during the previews. Sorry mom, now I get it. You, too, must have been really hungover. Also new to me-- the fact that "Irish Exits" were a thing, and that thing had a name. I always thought they were my signature move and were called "Just tell people you're going to the bathroom and never come back." I find myself doing these more and more to ensure my 8-10 hrs. I'm having a lot of fun going out in D.C., but it's like Cinderella at Midnight, except in my case, The Plucky Sidekick at about 12:45/1am.
Another odd adult thing that occurred -- I exhibited self-control. I was at a friend's goodbye party for his apartment, celebrating all the great memories made there, and the small fact he recently bought a condo. When he told me about the purchase, the first thing I said was "Whoa, you're like an adult. That's like... real life." Yes, you, it's REAL LIFE, which you are a part of, but somehow trying to desperately avoid. I went for drinks before the party, and was pretty liquored up since my adult tolerance has kicked in and after two drinks I'm like Amanda Bynes on twitter. At the party I poured myself another drink and struck up a convo with some guy. I realized, after I had "Groundhog Day"-d him by asking where he was from, twice, I put down the booze and switched to water. The non-adult me would've thought "That was a blip. But in no way will ingesting more alcohol make you sound even more out of it..." Speaking of drinking -- here what happened on St. Patrick's Day:
Here I am, like the gang in "Toy Story 3" on the conveyor belt to the furnace (by the way, that film was NOT a comedy), struggling to get life to just hang on a sec and let me catch up so I'm ready to handle the looming "adultness" in the future. But, it doesn't work like that. Instead, we beat on, boats against the current, constantly applying SPF hand and neck cream because all ladies know those are the FIRST things to go.
I'm also tired. About, let's say... all the time. When I was a kid I used to get so angry when my mom fell asleep in the movies. I would elbow her, thinking "HOW CAN YOU BE BORED BY THIS TALKING BAT IN 'ANASTASIA?' THIS IS LITERALLY THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN UP UNTIL THIS POINT OF MY LIFE." I recently went to the movies and debated whether or not I should sleep during the previews. Sorry mom, now I get it. You, too, must have been really hungover. Also new to me-- the fact that "Irish Exits" were a thing, and that thing had a name. I always thought they were my signature move and were called "Just tell people you're going to the bathroom and never come back." I find myself doing these more and more to ensure my 8-10 hrs. I'm having a lot of fun going out in D.C., but it's like Cinderella at Midnight, except in my case, The Plucky Sidekick at about 12:45/1am.
Another odd adult thing that occurred -- I exhibited self-control. I was at a friend's goodbye party for his apartment, celebrating all the great memories made there, and the small fact he recently bought a condo. When he told me about the purchase, the first thing I said was "Whoa, you're like an adult. That's like... real life." Yes, you, it's REAL LIFE, which you are a part of, but somehow trying to desperately avoid. I went for drinks before the party, and was pretty liquored up since my adult tolerance has kicked in and after two drinks I'm like Amanda Bynes on twitter. At the party I poured myself another drink and struck up a convo with some guy. I realized, after I had "Groundhog Day"-d him by asking where he was from, twice, I put down the booze and switched to water. The non-adult me would've thought "That was a blip. But in no way will ingesting more alcohol make you sound even more out of it..." Speaking of drinking -- here what happened on St. Patrick's Day:
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| After dinner, we called it a night around 11:30pm. |
Here I am, like the gang in "Toy Story 3" on the conveyor belt to the furnace (by the way, that film was NOT a comedy), struggling to get life to just hang on a sec and let me catch up so I'm ready to handle the looming "adultness" in the future. But, it doesn't work like that. Instead, we beat on, boats against the current, constantly applying SPF hand and neck cream because all ladies know those are the FIRST things to go.
PICTURES! These posts are dynamic as fuck, y'all! Loveeeee herrrr
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