I Promise, I am an Adult

Another Saturday night rolled around, and by the wee hours, there I was, once again, head down the toilet bowl, puking my guts out, making these animalistic sounds (gagging), and contemplating the difficult journey from the bathroom floor to my bed. A true lady. Nevertheless, it was on this night, in a somewhat unpleasant state, that it hit me: I AM AN ADULT!

I am in my twenties, and like some twenty-something year olds, I am failing at adulting (or at least, that’s what others will have me believe). I am still in absolute shock that my cousin, who’s my age, is now a parent, and a little confused as to why our family hasn’t lost their shits over this. Just a few years ago, they went ballistic when they found out I had snuck a boy in. Now, sis has birthed a whole human and we’re all applauding? It truly is unbelievable what changes a few years can cause. But then again, some things never change. For example: I cry every time a nurse brings out a needle, and I excitedly eat my candy (nurses always have candies), feeling rewarded for the inconvenience. These days, I text my friends asking what I should have for breakfast, I’m brought to tears when children look to me as an adult, and, sometimes, I forget to brush my teeth before bed. I know, gross. Simultaneously, I have a great job, a profession I love, and really doing the whole career building thing; also, I write a mean cover letter. A stark contrast to the girl found with her head in a toilet bowl more Saturdays than I’m willing to admit. The point is, sometimes I feel I have not effectively made the transition from teenage pea brain, to a full functioning adult. Boy, was I wrong.

Back to this pivotal night, I was telling you about. So, there I was, off the floor, but not quite in my room, because somewhere along the way, I had gotten an epic idea: to call my ex. So, I ended up on the couch, and began dialing. Bless his heart, the poor fellow was sound asleep, and when he would later return my call (at a more appropriate time of the day), I would be passed out, sleeping like a baby. Anyway, while ringing him incessantly, I had another great idea: to raid my fridge. I hosted a dinner party earlier that evening, and there were leftovers. A slice of chocolate cake seemed, even tasted, like a slice of heaven. This would be the start of a new journey, not to my bed, which, by the way, I just wanted to be in this entire time, but rather, back to the damn floor, with my head down the toilet. 

*Quick pause: believe me, I know how this is looking: sloppy, and immature, and just ridiculous. And if you’re feeling the urge to tell me to grow up, I hear you, but I promise, I have.*

This is where the story takes a turn for the best. This time around, I’m off the floor much quicker, and stand in front of my sink. There, I catch a glimpse of myself, looking a full mess. Next thing you know, I have the tap running, cleanser in my hand, ready to begin a full before-bed-routine. Brushing teeth and all. And it is here guys, that I had the epiphany: I am an adult! Two glasses of water for the liver and two ibuprofens for the headache, it was lights out for your girl. In the sweet comfort of my bed.

The truth is, this is exactly what adulting looks like. For me, at least. Which is totally fine, because life is not a one size fits all. Sure, the idea of starting a family is the farthest thing from my mind and I have a phobia of needles, these things in no way take away from the effectiveness of my adulthood.  I live on my own. That’s 1,095 meals I have to think up in a year. So, of course, I’m asking my friends for breakfast ideas, wouldn’t you? The real adult thing here to notice is that I am responsible for providing all 1,095 of those meals. Plus, I drink my water alright; not soda, not juice, not kool-aid. Water. That, that is adulting. And, other than work hard-play hard, I do not have a rationale for my rather questionable behaviors during the weekend, but then again, I said I was an adult, not perfect. 

To holy weeks and trash weekends,

Your favorite, girlchild.