Sometimes I really wish I was a functional adult. Here I am,
62 years old, still grappling with the question “when will I be a real
grown-up?” In my twenties, I understood why I didn’t have my act together. I
was still a kid, right? In my thirties, I did a bit of adulting: bought my
first house (in a VERY questionable neighborhood). Took a stronger interest in
my social work career and received a few promotions. Took up writing as a
serious hobby.
When I reached my forties, I did two VERY adult things; I got
married AND I PUBLISHED MY FIRST BOOK! One would think I almost had a clue,
right? Not so much. My husband did his best to coax me into maturity,
introducing me to foreign concepts like “joint checking” and “shared closet.” Of
course, he continued to add to my Slinky collection so I’m not sure he was 100%
invested in my growing up.
It gradually started to occur to me that my development seemed
a bit stilted. I didn’t FEEL grown up. I mean, surely there would come a point
when I would GET IT. I would know who I was and where I needed to put my focus.
Other people my age had their act together. Why didn’t I?
In my fifties, I tried faking it. I succeeded, too. My FOURTH novel got
published. I did tons of speaking engagements for both professions: novelist and social worker. I like to think I
actually sounded like I knew what I was talking about! Of course, I didn’t—not
really. How could I when I wasn’t even a real adult yet?
I held on to a vague hope that it would happen one day: I
would wake up and it would all be clear.
THIS is who I am. THIS is why I am here. I’d walk with more confidence and smile
knowingly at my fellow real adults. I’d start wearing heels and carry a
briefcase that didn’t look like a middle-schooler’s knapsack. I’d suddenly be
skinny and never have a bad hair day. Everyone would look up to me and think,
“Wow. She’s really got it together!”
But now I’m in my sixties and it ain’t happened yet. My
husband and I are meeting with a financial planner who keeps tossing around words
like "fixed index annuity" and
“margins,” and I no longer even pretend I know what he’s talking about: “Dumb
it down, Keith! Dumb it down!”
I’m accepting that I’ll never take that final step to
adulthood. THIS is actually who I am: STILL NOT A GROWN-UP.
My only option is to make the most of it. When you think about
it, MANY writers are not good at adulting, and it’s what we write about: our
struggles. All the ways we feel vulnerable and flawed. About what it’s like to
be a poser around people who aren’t. (Are there people who aren’t?)
If I’m being honest, these are the writers I enjoy reading. I
connect with their character’s pain and take vicarious pleasure when they
succeed. And these are the characters I love to write. If I do it well, it’s
because I’m right there with them. Their vulnerability is frighteningly close
to my own, so I dive in to explore it with them. Maybe in my journey with them, I’ll find my
way to become a functional adult.
Then again, maybe I don’t want to be.
Where do you stand on the issue of adulting?
