Life achievements
I’ve Reached the Pinnacle of Adulting
Now what?
I was casually chatting with my dad and something related to current world events came up. Concerned as to why I had not yet heard about the latest attempt at a political insurrection in Germany, my dad kindly offered his New York Times digital subscription login.
I proudly exclaimed, “I have my own!”
“Wow, that’s really great!” he said, sounding genuinely surprised and pleased.
I will be 43 this month. I am not a recent college grad trying to figure out my shit. I mean, I’m still trying to figure out some of my shit. Okay, a lot of my shit, but I am more or less a fully-formed adult, doing a lot of the check-the-box adult things. Yet my dad assumed I was not adult enough to have my own New York Times subscription. Ouch!
It reminded me of a time in my 20’s, when I was staying at my older sister’s apartment to celebrate her birthday. I decided to bake her a cake, from a mix. I’m no Betty Crocker just to be clear. I was chatting with my parents and informed them of this kind gesture, to which they said, “Wow! You know how to do that?!”
Yes, I know how to read, crack an egg and stir. I guess I am pretty fucking amazing. I brushed it off and proceeded with my boxed birthday cake masterpiece, feeling quite pleased. My sister was too.
All this to say, my parents still see me as the baby of the family, no matter how many adult things I do. No matter how many corporate steps I’ve climbed, children I’ve birthed, or mortgage payments I’ve made, none of it matters. It’s merely a result of the pecking order in a family; the natural rhythm of things. I don’t think they’re aware of it and it’s certainly not ill-intentioned. In fact, I believe it comes from a loving place.
Nevertheless, to demonstrate my adulting prowess, I’ve come up with a list that I can flash at my parents whenever their reaction to something I’ve “accomplished” seems a tad inflated. Check me out in all of my adulting glory:
- I eat oatmeal for breakfast. No more cocoa puffs for me! I even add flax or chia seeds to give it a delectable crunch, and to augment its nutritional value with life-extending, hair-growing, nail-strengthening, nutrient-dense wholesomeness.
- I listen to NPR, though not intentionally. Whenever I turn on my husband’s car, NPR is always blasting, at a deafening volume. Nothing says ‘party’ like going full bass on that NPR.
- I scan news headlines. I may not know about the attempted political insurrection in Germany, but I can tell you that Olivia Wilde is still upset about her split from Harry Styles and that Bruce Willis and Demi Moore are spending the holidays together. This is not from my NYTimes subscription, but rest assured it’s from a very reliable source.
- I’ve started to collapse cardboard boxes before shoving them into my overflowing recycling bin. No, I don’t get the straight-edge out and cut along the lines. I pounce on them like a sugared-up child on a pogo stick until they are completely unrecognizable. And then I shove them into the blue bin, feeling quite pleased.
- I floss every other night, a newish habit I’ve developed to stave off the massive dose of shame my dentist serves up every visit. I will never floss every night. I am not that big of a kiss-ass.
- I own fabric softener. I’ve used it twice.
- I own a nice vacuum cleaner. Also used it twice.
- I have a nice set of monogrammed coasters. They sit on my coffee table where no one ever sits or drinks. But they are there, at the ready.
- I have a full dining room set! The room gets properly used for one or two holidays per year, and functions as a kids’ crap depository in-between.
- I have framed art. Sure, it’s from Target, but it’s in a frame and hangs above my mantle. A definite step up from the unframed, sticky-tack hung posters of my youth.
- I own two coffee makers!
- My pantry contains a vast array of spices, many of which still have the plastic film intact.
- I served on my kids’ school PTO and lasted six whole months. Turns out scrutinizing the budget for soccer balls is not a passion of mine.
- I bought a set of those velvet hangers for my closet. That is all. They’ve been purchased.
- I’ve been to the Container Store. Nope, my house may not look like it belongs to someone who frequents the Container Store, but I’ve been inside the store.
- I keep hand wipes in my car.
- I pay attention when my car makes a strange noise, then ignore it until it becomes a major issue, but at least I’m listening.
- I keep slippers by my bed.
- I have my very own New York Times subscription.
Now that I’ve accomplished all of this, what could possibly come next? I fear it’s all downhill from here and I may start to regress to my pre-adulting days when I hung tapestries and unframed posters on my wall.
What is left to achieve now that I have my own NY Times subscription? Collecting antiques? Getting a Wall Street Journal subscription? Or The Economist?
Honestly, it doesn’t seem like there’s too much left to accomplish. Maybe I should throw the towel in, succumb to this rancid reality, and sneak a bowl of cocoa puffs while I’m at it. After all, they are much tastier than my superfood laden, mealy, mushy, room-temp oatmeal.
