Thursday, October 28, 2004

Acid Wash Dreams

The thing I want to know is this -- When did I become this SUV-driving, grande-nonfat-decafe-latte-drinking, suburban-living, non-9-5-stay-at-home-with-baby, grocery-shopping-five-times-a-week, pop-tart-eating adult? (Okay, so the pop tart didn't fit in there, but they're so damn good). Really. When did I become a True Adult? And why do I sometimes still feel like the 17-year old with the big hair and the too-tight acid wash jeans?

Here are the ways I know I'm an adult:

When I visit my parents, I don't say, "I'm going home." When I leave my parents, I do.

I've come to terms with the fact that I likely won't find fame or greatness. I'd settle for just getting the job done.

I have a husband and a baby and a to-do list with a life of its own

I have a cleaning woman, a lawn guy, an electrician and a mechanic (still working on the plumber)

I no longer know the cool bars or clubs and wouldn't even think of trying to find out

When I watch MTV, I don't know who most of "those kids" are

Everyone in magazines is younger than me

And...the worst...those pesky blondes. No, not the boob girls in the videos but the ones that I find and yank out of my otherwise black hair that I call blonde but are actually...hurts to say it...gray. Ugh.

I'm of the belief that there's a new True Adulthood. That the twenties are still a bit like playtime, spent figuring it all out. And that you don't become a full adult until you reach your thirties. The twenties are for practice, the thirties are when it all comes together (my friend Missie is excluded since she was until recently in her twenties and for as long as I can remember has been totally together with a wrapping paper station in her house and everything always neat and color coordinated and perfect. But this applies to everyone else).

It's not that I didn't have a job and bills and responsibilities and all that in my twenties. I did, but I didn't take it too seriously. I lived in this post-college glow. I was single and it was fun and nothing seemed too real at that point. Of course there was angst, that whole when-will-I-find-a-boyfriend-get-settled-have-a-baby-oh-my-god-I'm-getting-old-thing. And that's nothing to take lightly. But what was important then (where my girlfriends and I would go to dinner to make fun of our latest awful dates, what the hell I was going to do with my life because my job was not what I had in mind when sitting in the library in college dreaming of the future instead of studying) were not the things of True Adulthood.

And now I've reached that pinnacle of adulthood - Motherhood. And there's no denying that I'm different now. But when I leave Daniel at home with Michael, I still drive too fast with the windows down, radio blasting bands with one-word names that I've never heard of. And as I head to Old Navy for some Juicy Couture knockoff sweatpants (they're $14 not $200 and just as cute. I mean who the hell pays $200 for sweatpants anyway?) or to my weekly yoga class (Must. Find. Inner. Peace. Now. Or. I. Will. Self. Implode.) I could still be that seventeen year old in a 1980 hand-me-down orange Corolla nicknamed Rusty that's missing a rearview mirror and one air vent. And I wonder if I'll still be blaring rock when I'm 72, driving my enormous, boat-like Cadillac to Canasta on Tuesday nights? Hell, at 72, I'd still better be doing yoga, but by then, I hope I've made it to the intermediate class.


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