Don’t Make Me Adult Today



In honor of the rash of “don’t make me adult today” memes and Facebook status updates that have flooded my various newsfeeds, and to which I relate all too well, I have been inspired to explore in writing the major headaches and minor inconveniences that all fall under the vast and oppressive umbrella called “responsibility.” This sincere plea, which is a daily one for many, myself included, is uttered when the myriad things you have to do and deal with unfortunately take precedence over catching up on Ray Donovan. Although it is asked of an invisible decision-maker who will never actually answer, we all ask it each day, when our alarm clocks go off, again as our moods deteriorate precipitously on the way to work, and once more when bills are due, and on into infinity. The anxiety starts small, with trying not to get food on your clothes when you’re out to eat, and then goes off the charts, with things like trying to figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life, as if there’s one correct answer.

It’s exhausting, really. The aforementioned headaches will always be major, and the minor inconveniences typically come in droves, and you haven’t the energy or will power to deal with any of it. Maybe you put off food shopping because the supermarket around the corner is a madhouse all day, everyday, and everyone there is always in your goddamn way. You may even put it off because you don’t want to spend a massive amount of money in one sitting when you’d rather just go to Wawa twice a day, even it ends up costing you more throughout the week. Perhaps your dog just destroyed yet another pair of flip flops simply because she got mad that you left her alone, and woke you up in the morning when she jumped off the bed to throw up large pieces of said flip flops. You dread the day when flip flops need to be retired for the year and it’s again time to be filled with rage when you try to find two socks that match and don’t have holes in them, all while you’re running late for work. You contemplate throwing away every sock you have and buying all new ones, making sure they’re all exactly the same.

It is even possible that you’re debating calling the township because your recycling can disappeared once again, even though you know what you’ll be told. Oh, a new one can be purchased for $100? Guess who’s not recycling anymore. Can’t be bothered to put the laundry away as soon as it’s done? Don’t worry, you can just place it on the floor in vaguely neat piles, only for it all to collect dust and dog hair, and get wrinkled once it inevitably gets stepped on, rifled through, and kicked around. You may come to find that you can’t handle a wine tasting without a same-day hangover from hell, and you rarely look at your bank account because you’re regularly terrified of seeing how much money you don’t have. And by you, I mean me.

I’m one of the worst adults ever, and there’s not a bone in my body that remotely enjoys any type of responsibility. I would honestly rather buy action figures than pay a delinquent sewer bill, since I know that I’m paying for other people’s shit rather than for pizza or furnishings for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I own a house, which is a blessing in many ways, but I resent how things going wrong in the house force me to spend entirely too much time and money at home improvement stores, even though those stores smell incredible. I hate doing dishes (even with a dishwasher), and generally put off taking care of it until there are no clean dishes left. I’m fairly averse to many awkward, adult-oriented social situations like job interviews, having to call people to resolve problems, trying to resist telling the service representative at the car dealership what a bloody rip-off everything he’s suggesting is, or being introduced to ten people at once at any sort of gathering.

Adults, in the grand scheme of things, are just oversized babies, just out there winging it. Grown-ups are no better at figuring things out than children are, because as you gain life experience, life only gets more complicated. Being an adult is the worst thing you could ever do to yourself. I spend a significant number of hours each day dreaming about a permanent vacation in a place where palm trees are the dominant species, and about going back to a time when worries didn’t multiply exponentially by the hour. Life isn’t all bad, though. It’s Monday as I write this, so I may just be in a mood.  If you haven’t grown up yet, put it off as long as possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ray Donovan awaits.


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