Maybe it’s because I can’t hang up my own blinds, operate a barbecue or assemble IKEA living room furniture–but for some reason I can’t help worrying that my adulthood is a fraud.
Aren’t adults supposed to be able to do such simple tasks?
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I am 24 years old. I have a master’s degree. I have a job. I have an apartment. I live in one of the world’s largest cities. And I just did my laundry for the first time in a solid month last Tuesday.
It’s pretty embarrassing.
But when I pause to stop chastising myself for parading around as a real, live grown-up, I must ask: What makes someone an adult anyway?
I remember thinking, back in elementary school, that people in college were so old–they didn’t have to live with their parents! But being a mature, functioning member of society is so much more than your address, paycheck, engagement ring and matching Labradors.
Those are all just things that project an image. For all anyone else knows, people who seem to have it all might look the part, but privately are disheveled procrastinators who forget to pay the cable bill and leave dishes in the sink for days.
A person’s age or status doesn’t always translate to maturity.
So what does make someone a grown-up?
I’m starting to think it’s a stupid designation altogether. Becoming an adult happens to everyone at a different time in life and probably never happens for some people (i.e. that man at the bar whose hairline is starting to recede and who hasn’t noticed that he’s 15 years older than you).
When you’re in your 20s, you can’t expect anyone to be particularly far along on the maturity meter, because you’d hate everybody. Last year in graduate school I met 30-year-olds who didn’t have the slightest idea where their lives were going and
22-year-olds who will probably find a cure for cancer next week. It’s all about a person’s priorities and how comfortable she is with her own personal attributes–and how she applies them to her life.
For example, the way my old roommate, Alice, manages her life used to make me feel like I needed to pitch a tent in the self-help section of the nearest Borders. She woke up at 6 a.m. every day and went running (once in 13-below January snow!) and washed every pot immediately after she cooked her dinner (always a carefully planned dish from Cooking Light magazine). She had a spreadsheet on the computer to manage her personal finances, she dusted the tops of picture frames, and she didn’t hide any stuff under her bed.
It took a while for me to realize that just because Alice always had to remind me to clean the shower or recycle my Wheat Thins boxes I was not an incompetent quasi-adult. I just tend to focus more on big-picture things. Instead of doing dishes, I was writing my novel or harassing the people at RedEye to give me a job.
That realization was quite freeing.
Too many of us in our 20s stress out over whether or not we’re progressing at the right pace. Do we have the right jobs? Are we dating the right people? Are we making enough money? On top of that, there are all of life’s little things, from blinds to barbecues to IKEA furniture.
Sometimes thinking about these things makes me feel like I will implode.
Eventually, with the more experiences you get under your belt, the more self-confidence you gain. You see yourself rise to the occasion, and know you can do it again. You start to get comfortable with your own habits and potential. You relax a little bit.
And that is when you can tell the difference between your 15-year-old, ambivalent, CD-blaring, co-dependent self and the adult staring back at you in the mirror.
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