- -1 beds in your childhood home
- An inedible Hershey's Kiss
- Your first best friend's engagement
- Pajamas from your mom
- Socks on your Christmas list
- 1 adult coloring book
- 25
Instructions
There's something about readily encouraging your mom to sell your bed and turn your bedroom into a craft room that makes you feel like an adult. As if to say, "Go ahead, delete my childhood. I've got a space of my own, and, when I'm in town, I'll figure it out."
There's something about readily encouraging your mom to sell your bed and turn your bedroom into a craft room that makes you feel like an adult. As if to say, "Go ahead, delete my childhood. I've got a space of my own, and, when I'm in town, I'll figure it out."
Or maybe it's as if to say, "Now that I'm here at home and have been sleeping at my dad's all week instead of your house, Mother, I realize that I was wrong. Because I'd actually rather split my time between the two of you, contrary to what I've said for the last 18 years."
So, perhaps it's as if to say, "I'm adult 'cause I mistakes make."
Yeah.
My mother also readily admitted, at the end of the week in which I was home, that she's thinking of ridding of the craft room... What can I say; you can't not miss me. Also, look at us-- two consenting adult women making mistakes! We can change our minds and live up to it! There it is: my mom and I are adults because we make mistakes.
SCENE BREAK: I've mentioned my line of adorable Halloween costumes as an adult-- the Princess Diana Beanie Baby, Kit Kittredge the American Girl doll, and, this year, trying to decide between Lambchop's Shari Lewis and a Girl Scout. But across our kitchen table this October, my mother proposes proudly, coyly,
"You should be a Hershey's Kiss!"
"Why, what a wonderful idea, Mother!"
She purses her lips and lowers her voice. "That way you can write 'KISS ME' on the tag."
"Ummm... I believe the tag only says 'HERSHEY'S's,' but, sure, I might write 'KISS.' That's cute."
"Or you could write 'KISS ME.'"
To say she gives me a "knowing smile" belies the phrase. Anyways, this costume idea lends itself well to my desire to put myself out there more. Oh, it could easily be made "sexy"-- I do write "KISS" instead of "HERSHEY'S"-- but I naturally push so strongly against that concept that I turn out like this:
This is my attempt at being less cute and more risqué this year. Oh, and if you're wondering, Mom: no one kissed me.
END SCENE
My mom and I are also adults because we wear faux silk pajama separates that you can't wear as anything but pajamas. Like, if you wanted to work out or lounge or shop at Walmart in them-- in no world would that be acceptable... Those pajamas. My mom has been wearing her real pajama separates for years, and I'll still never understand how she needs a new pair (or two) for Christmas each year... Where do they all go? Regardless, guess who didn't ask for anything for Christmas and received a highly specific gift instead? Me, a naive body not yet cloaked with the goodness of Kohl's soft faux silk. When I first opened this present, I had that, "Oh, cool, a(n) [insert practical gift I didn't really need but could definitely use]" reaction; I didn't understand why my mom got me a collared, patterned pajama separates set. But then I realized that she was passing the torch. Unpacking this stiff yet silky set from its cellophane (my mom and I love a good online shopping sale) when I got back to my 24-year-old young woman's New York apartment the next day, I noticed a sharp change in the room, as if these large baby blue PJs brought with them a new energy, a spirit. That, my friends, was the spirit of turning into my mother.
My four gals all pile out of a small car and are instantly welcomed by the maniacal barking of my home's border collie. As I invite them inside, hugs abound with slight shrieking and humungous smiles to celebrate all being together for the first time in two years (last year I stayed in NY and screwed it up), my voice reaching a recognizably hyper pitch and the girls' typical tempering of that with laughter-- all this, matched with a tension. In a split second moment, I think,
This is the first time we've all been in the same room in person, getting squeal-y like this, in two years-- and two years ago we were all fresh out of college. Sense memory is a bitch. Ladies, we are not 22 and 23 anymore. Oh, no; we are 24 and 25. We're not ripe with the energy of emerging young adulthood. We are weathered apartment dwellers with student loans and ex-boyfriends. Things have changed. We have changed. Who are we? What is time?
You know, a split second moment. I have a feeling the girls felt the same, as this is the type of unspoken internal language that only lifelong best friends can share, because we know where we came from. After the hyper hugs (probably me, mainly me), I offer Christmas cookies, fruit, the product of a scone experiment I made, and coffee. Instead of any of this, naturally they choose drinking. It's 9am; who's eating yet?
Sara begins to pour mimosas as we gather around my kitchen table. I attempt to scrape experimental scones off the wax paper onto unwilling plates. We smile at each other and put cookies on our plates as Sara finishes filling up our glasses to the brim.
Ah, that gorgeous sparkling orange. Before we even pinch the glasses' stems, Sam speaks up.
"Well, now that we have our mimosas... I have an announcement to make."
What-- My inner eyes do that shocked "bow-ooga" cartoon reaction-- Woah woah--
"I'm engaged!"
I knew it! You didn't give me time to finish my thought sentence!
(Screaming) (Hugging, shrieking, jumping, arm waving, jumping)
The night beforehand, Nathan (Sam's fiancé) asked Sam to marry him in front of town hall, by the Christmas tree, with her parents and sister watching on the steps, in the rain. Sam drove 6 hours from Illinois, got proposed to at 11pm, went to sleep, woke up at 8am and was like, "K, peace, I'm gonna go do Secret Santa with my girlfriends. Bye!"
Of course. Because The Fab 5 are weathered 24- and 25-year-old adults from 5 different states who have committed to Secret Santa, and each other, for all 6 years since high school. And for 7 years before that. We are older but still the same. We are family. And that is shown in the family photos we took with Nathan and Sam-- creepy as f*#$, but Nathan was cool with it.
END SCENE
Adulthood is also found in the pursuit of the mundane. The look on my father's face-- nay, the shock and gladness that overcame his entire body-- was as I expected when I told him he could buy me socks for Christmas. He always does-- or wants to, I should say.
Who hasn't opened a holiday or birthday gift of socks and rolled their inner or outer eyes? Socks are the most practical and boring gift you can give someone (only because it's still socially unacceptable to give someone underwear, unfortunately). More inane than other common vague gifts-- lotion, candles, nail polish-- socks are unisex and humanly necessary. If you know literally nothing about someone and buy them socks as a gift, you can pretty safely guarantee they'll use them. Even if they're a weird color or The Breakfast Club-themed, socks will be worn because no one sees them and laundry day's a bitch. I still own and wear the socks my mom bought me in high school even though they say "Eat my shorts" or have Judd Nelson's face on them. (She saw me watching The Breakfast Club once. Little did she know I was watching it to see what the big hype was all about, and I hated it. I was 14.) Universal, generally impersonal, mostly boring.
When my dad asked what I wanted for Christmas this year, I asked for socks.
SCENE BREAK: The setting is Chelsea Market. The store, I don't know what it's called but it's this little independent bookstore in there, right across from where the indie rock band was drunkenly playing Christmas tunes in December, which is super stupid in front of a book store... The goal is to buy gifts for my stepmom and my Fab 5 Secret Santa, Julia.
Moving towards the back of the shop, the sight of some fun-looking journals off in the distance, I am stopped dead in my tracks. A table of coloring books? But why such large, glaringly white, thick, and sophisticated coloring books?
Can there be more than the $25 Crayola coloring book for adults that I found online in November when searching for a get-well gift for a friend and didn't buy because good Lord that's expensive for a damn coloring book seeing as I'd need to buy nice colored pencils, too?
How on earth does someone color within these extremely fine lines? How can you get away with titling these books "Color Me Calm" or "Soothing Designs for Fun & Relaxation" when, honestly, they scream inevitable anxiety due to lack of patience and failure of incompletion?
Why do I feel like I'd be bored by page 4 of "Creative Flowers?" Can I take half of "Secret Garden" and half of "Secret Cities?" What does that have to say about my commitment to an urban environment?
What is "Secret New York???" Why won't I allow myself to open it? Am I afraid I'll want an adult coloring book? But seriously, though, is someone revealing political or architectural secrets about New York via intricate black and white drawings, because I'm not sure how effective that form of communication is?
I move along.
It's the next week, and the setting is a different independent book store in New York City. The goal is now to purchase gifts for my mom and sister. I wander around the store too slowly for someone who knows it's about to close, unfulfilled until I reach the checkout counter's display.
Oh, shit, is that a mini adult coloring book? Isn't it almost a normal size, though-- eh, but definitely still fancy, with that heavy cardstock cover?
Are adult coloring books, like... a thing?
I buy it for my sister.
It's the next week. Barnes and Noble, Westlake, OH. My sister and I are deep into the back crevasse of the store, where they lob the humor books. Turning a corner, we approach the barely browsed large maps and crosswords to see "if" they have any adult coloring books.
Hot damn, how can there be so many?!?!
And, gee, if we walk into the main lobby we'll see that their largest display is a table full of adult coloring books?
Oh, it's like that?
(Yes, that was a Hamilton reference.)
It's Christmas Eve morn at the Fab Five Secret Santa. I receive, at last, "Secret New York."
Do any of these drawings have anything to do with New-- Is this a page of cassettes and VHS tapes?!
It's Christmas Eve. My sister is opening presents at my dad's. After gifts from my mom earlier and her birthday 10 days ago, she receives her fourth adult coloring book. She isn't unhappy.
The setting is Christmas morning. I open a gift from my mom to find a pack of Crayola colored pencils... for adults.
Did I choose this or did this choose me?
END SCENE
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| Adulthood |
What does it mean to be an adult? I don't know; maybe you should ask one. Once in this blog I aptly named myself a "baby adult," and I've been feeling pretty good about using it since. I don't know how "old" I'll have to be before I consider myself an adult-- a true no-hiccup-when-you-say-it-out-loud adult. Maybe it's because I'm short. Maybe it's because I don't have a full time career. Maybe it's because I don't wear professional attire. Maybe it's because I don't have a 401k. Maybe it's because I sleep in a twin sized bed. Maybe it's because somehow I still tend to be the youngest person in many crowds, astonishingly. Maybe it's because I ate ice cream for lunch today. Maybe it's because I'm still on my mom's Family Plan. Maybe it's because I don't have any savings. Maybe it's because I have three stuffed moose on my bed. Maybe it's because I still have a wider collection of stuffed moose. Maybe it's because I don't feel qualified or worthy of being an adult because of all of these things and the true disconnect I have with any mainstream, typical post-college lifestyle. Or maybe it's because I don't want to grow up.
I love being able to audition for teenagers, yet I complain about feeling like I can't even submit for 25-year-olds. I get offended when moms or other babysitters think I'm a 9- or 10-year-old's mother (and not obvious babysitter), but I also feel immense pride when, after 45 minutes of panicked & confused maneuvering of my 10-year-old into not merely hockey equipment but goalie equipment for my first time ever, he saunters in his badass helmet out onto the ice to the clapping of two nearby moms.
"Wow, Unnamed Child! You look AWESOME!"
They continue to pump him up with compliments and even take a photo to send his mom before he waddles away. One of the moms turns to me. "Nice job! He looks so fierce!"
"This was the worst part of my week."
Great response, Anna. An emotionally raw (& feisty) babysitter probably isn't a common sight for them, but they immediately jump back on board. "You know, I'd never want to be a Goalie Mom. It's hard."
"Really?"
The other pipes in. "Ohh, yeah! There's so much extra equipment. It's stressful, but you'll get the hang of it. And look! He looks so awesome."
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| Put it on in the wrong order. See what happens. |
The three of us talked for a good 30 minutes or so. They respected my perspective as a babysitter and asked me for advice. It was enjoyable and satisfying to be welcomed and treated like, well... an adult. Hey, I like hanging out with moms. The mom of my previous middle schooler and I stay in touch. The year after I stopped sitting for her, she had me over for lunch! I made cookies or something! The 11-year-old I used to watch (/with whom I used to discuss Jane Austen movie adaptations and significant symbolism in The Hunger Games) in college has a mom who was both my babysitting and work-study boss, and we still Facebook message and get together when she's in town. Truth be told, I've loved hanging out with my parents and their friends since I was a kid. When I was younger, I actually preferred it.
I've always had an odd mix of serious maturity and a reluctance to grow up. My sister and I went straight from "Mommy" and "Daddy" to "Mother" and "Father." I'd hang out with my fifth grade teacher and my mom after school and chat about our class like I wasn't in it, only to go home to play quietly with my Polly Pockets. I shopped in the kids' section until the eighth grade, the year after I was the only one to eagerly volunteer to work the popcorn machine at our first school dance-- because I thought it would be more fun than socializing with junior high idiots. I voluntarily forced myself one summer to read Fahrenheit 451 and a nonfiction book about reading the entire Encyclopedia, all while watching primarily Disney Channel original programming.
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| A 30-year-old playing Hannah Montana's 17-year-old brother gave me so much hope. |
Growing up, I was always more comfortable socializing with people younger or older than me-- never my own age. Now, it seems each year of age difference becomes less of a big of a deal the longer you're out in "the real world." As I'm starting to hang out with a wider net of people than those with whom I graduated college (no offense but thank goodness, right?), the whole Age thing is more murky. I didn't notice at first that my recent improv class had a wide mix of ages-- and that I was the youngest. I almost always assume everyone is my age because I, like most humans, am naturally a bit egocentric. Weeks into my class, we finally learned each others' ages-- because, guess what, it didn't matter. They were all older than I'd thought. I don't know; perhaps people living in New York age incredibly well. And perhaps I am more self-centered than I realized. But I also think that, once you move past college-aged, you're defined more by your wider age chunk, not your number age. The friends whom I found out were 30 fit into the same age chunk in which my brain puts me. However, I also feel that society places a ton of what I see as largely unnecessary pressures on ages and age chunks. As absolutely inane as this sounds, if these friends were married, or if we'd talked more about our jobs, or if they lived by themselves... would I still have thought they were 24 or 25?
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| ... even though the older I get, the more I do this... |
In forcing myself to think about age while writing this, I realized that it's possible I don't subscribe to what I "should" be doing at this point in my life so much that I'm instead subscribing to not be doing what I "should" be doing at 24. When I talk about my day jobs, need I undermine my self, time, and income by constantly degrading these jobs, which I actually care about and enjoy? Would it be so difficult or wrong for me to admit that I look admiringly upon those my age who choose to get married? Am I simply holding off on adulthood until after I finally go to Disney World?
Clearly, the concept of adulthood is tricky. I have few tangible thoughts on it because, again, I see myself as a Baby Adult. I have no authority other than being alive. Alright, hold your horses, OK, and let me tell you what I do know: I believe I should be working, paying my rent, paying my bills (except that Family Plan!), buying my groceries, trying to find what both happiness and success mean to me while not forgetting to be a kind person to those around me, and wearing clean underwear. Beyond that... What's a 24-year-old to do?
6 months until I'm 25. Then, only a quarter of my life will have been lived, and, truth be told, I find that exciting. (I know I'm going to live to be at least 98 because, when I was 4, the woman who used to bake our birthday cakes told my mom and me definitively that all Annas live to be very old. And soon after that we read an obituary in the newspaper of an Anna who died at 98.) Listen, I've been freaking out about being the best damn 40-year-old I could be since I was ten. Age is merely lessening the gap.
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| Amherst City Hall, 2009. The *next time Sam (middle) took a pic here, she got engaged. *not verified |
