Adulting
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Who is an adult? What does it mean to be an adult? When does one become an adult? As I stepped into my teenage years, I started to look forward to being an adult. With their jobs, and their money, and their freedom to go wherever they want, eat whatever they want, do whatever they want- especially being able to kiss each other on the lips- “man, that seems like a fantastic life”, I would think, “these people seem to have it all figured out”. Today, fifteen years later, this label of an adult having been conferred upon me- I don’t want it. In fact, I find myself violently rejecting it, trying to peel the label off, but the damn thing has been stitched into my identity. For all intents and purposes.
For some reason, the kid that I was, thought that being an adult simply means more fun. School was boring and quite often torturous. Any attempt at fun immediately had a piece of chalk thrown in its face, and so having fun became a rebellious activity. And while the sweetness of victorious rebellion- that bunked period spent giggling with friends in the wings of the deserted auditorium- was so, so sweet, I dreamt of a fun that was easier to have. Less laden with fear and guilt, less requiring of such stealthy manoeuvres. So, let’s see, what has more fun meant for me as an adult? Almost limitless independence, meaningful friendships, a lot of drunken, hazy days and nights, intensely exciting romances, very pleasurable sex, awe-inspiring travels. I’ve had a lot of fun. And these experiences have made me feel a lot of joy. And yet, the kid that was me, looks at me quizzically, “Is this it? Is this what I was waiting for?”
“Well yea, what else did you expect?”, I ask, surprised. Seated upon those steps in the hallway of the school corridor, determined to maintain his distance from me, he responds visibly disappointed, “I just thought our life would be more care-free. More happy.” My face falls a little, and I stare at him, as he turns his face away from me. After a few seconds, he says, “I’m scared, man.” “Why?”, I ask incredulously. “I don’t want to be you”, he says, without a hint of guile. “That’s a terrible thing to say, you little shit! What the fuck is wrong with being me?”. “I don’t know, you’re always just so worried, so scared, and so damn serious. Like the damn teachers I spend all day around. And I don’t even know why. I mean I have a reason to be worried. Dealing with boring people, getting called a failure by them every day, studying shit that I don’t care about, pining after a girl who probably doesn’t like me because I’m not six feet tall yet.” “No, that’s not the reason, and you’ll never be six feet tall”, I interrupt him. He looks hurt, but continues, annoyed. “The least you could do is be a little happier than I am right now, and a little less scared than I am right now.”
Tears start to well up in my eyes, but I don’t know why. “Wait, haven’t I done what you needed me to do?”, I ask him, feeling strangely defeated. He looks at me, and his expression softens, “Well yes, partially. But man, you just seem so tightly wound..so hesitant in everything you do. You have fun, but you either pretend like you’re having more fun than you actually are, or you hold yourself back because you don’t want to look too silly. You keep saying that you want to try new things, but you either lose interest too soon, or don’t try at all, because you’re too afraid of failure, and too afraid of making a fool of yourself. You make friends, but you don’t show them all of who you are because that would be too embarrassing or too much for them to handle. You date and get into relationships, but you’re so scared of losing someone and being hurt that you either over-extend yourself or remain detached. You do well at your work, but don’t take risks because that could cause hurt or discomfort to your clients, or cause them to leave altogether. You put out your writing on Instagram, but don’t submit it to anyone else, because that would mean potential rejection, or admitting to yourself that you actually want to be recognized. Your entire life is so predicated on creating a sense of safety for yourself, and living in moderation, whatever the fuck that means. It’s like you’re sitting on the edge of the swimming pool, with your feet dipped in the water, trying to convince yourself that you don’t really need to get all the way into the pool. It’s just going to be more of the same thing right? No! It’s not! That’s a dumbass way to think!”.
I have tears streaming down my face. And I still don’t know why. I stare at the kid that was me in disbelief. “Wow…you’ve really thought a lot about this”. “Yea it’s hard not to, I spend all day next to you. I hear this shit from you all the time. Your constant fucking fear about everything. Every day, in every moment, I keep asking you if I can come out to play, if I can go explore that thing, if I can say what’s on my mind, if I can laugh a little more, if we can take a break. But I always receive such a half-hearted response from you. You’re either scared to let go, or worse, you become angry with me for even asking these questions, or complaining about us not having enough fun.”
“But life can’t always be about having fun”, I start to protest. He looks at me disgusted, “You’re such a fucking cliché man”. He gets up and walks away. I call out to him, but without turning, he puts his hand out to shush me and continues into the darkness of the school corridor.
