Adulting. It’s Hard … waahhh!

Have you ever … wanted to shed the responsibilities of adulthood and become a kid again?

Remember when you couldn’t wait to turn 13 so you could watch that PG-13 film with all the blood and gore, or 16 so you could drive, or 21 so you could drink (legally, at least), or 25 so you could rent a car? That rush to grow older and become an adult seemed so important back then, filling your mind with visions of freedom.

No one telling you what to do (unless you’re married or have a boss), no more being forced to eat stuff you didn’t like (Clean your plate or no dessert. But I hate peas!), no more movie restrictions based on age (Unless you are after the Senior Discount), no more being told you were too young or too short for the rollercoaster ride, no one telling you when to be home, when to go to bed, or when to get up.

Driving to the movies, chowing down on a plain burger and fries (not a vegetable in sight unless you count ketchup), washing it all down with an ice cold beer, then watching an R-rated movie, eating candy and popcorn until you felt ill, staying up past midnight and then not crawling out of bed until noon, checking all the adult boxes. You had arrived. The world was your oyster, but you didn’t have to eat the oyster if you didn’t want to. Now, that’s being an adult.

I vividly recall the very first time, some 45 years ago, that I went grocery shopping … with a list … that I had made … with things I wanted. Not an errand for my mom with her list, but an adventure in shopping with my list. Walking into Albertsons, I felt I was flying on Aladdin’s magic carpet as he sang about how it’s “A Whole New World.” Slowly, I cruised up and down every aisle, discovering things I never knew existed. For example, cottage cheese came in a 16-ounce container! Who knew? Growing up, all I’d ever seen at home was the 8-ounce size. And popsicles. You could buy bags of them, not just a small box of six. A whole new world indeed! I must have spent over an hour exploring all the possibilities compared to today, when, if I’m not out and done in thirty minutes or less, I’m cranky.

I’ve been “adulting” for forty-five years, and quite frankly, I’m a bit tired of it. I long for the days when my mother did my laundry, cooked my meals, and drove me to and from school and volleyball practice. Back then, my responsibilities included making my bed each day, making sure my dirty clothes were in the hamper, doing the dishes after dinner, and on weekends, mowing the lawn. For these menial chores, I received a meager allowance that was mine to spend however I saw fit, mostly on ice cream and the occasional PG movie (if I saved for a couple of weeks).

One of my favorite things about being a kid was the magic of falling asleep in one place and awakening in another, with no concept of time. Our road trip vacations worked this way. After coloring, reading comic books, or solving puzzles, I’d eventually fall asleep with my head resting on a pillow leaning against the car door. Two, three hours later, voilà, we were at our destination. Gee, this traveling thing is so easy. Or when we’d go to a drive-in movie and fall asleep in the back of the station wagon, or be at a neighbor’s house where we fell asleep in some guest room while the adults partied, and magically awoke the next morning in my own bed.

Boy, do I miss that. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to fall asleep on the drive home after a party (assuming you are not the one driving, of course) and then wake up in bed the next morning? I think of that every time I’m jostled awake with, “We’re home,” and have to navigate my way through the garage, the house, then change my clothes before finally climbing into bed.

And the whole cooking thing every day—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, repeat, ad nauseam. I’d gladly eat a few peas if I didn’t have to be responsible for 1) deciding what we were going to eat, 2) shopping for the ingredients, 3) cooking the food, and 4) then cleaning up the mess I made preparing the food. Going out to dinner is a nice reprieve, but you can’t go out for every meal, unless you are on a cruise ship, which I think is the whole appeal. Unfortunately, if I want to eat, I need to do all the stuff, the adult stuff. It’s exhausting.

The same applies to cleaning the house, maintaining the health of your vehicle and yourself, paying bills, and planning vacations. Unless you want to live in a filthy hole, have your car or your body break down, have the lights and water turned off, and never go anywhere past your front door, you have to do the adult stuff.

Sometimes I look at my sweet little dog with envy. She sleeps when she’s tired, even if it’s eleven in the morning or two in the afternoon. Her meals are prepared for her twice a day, and she seems to enjoy them. If she wants to play catch, she brings me her Frisbee. When she’s done playing, she’ll watch the thing fly over her head before walking away. She knows where the treat cupboard is and will sit there patiently until you relent. If she wants a belly scratch, she rolls on her back and presents herself. All her needs are taken care of, and she has no responsibilities, except barking at strange noises and chasing away rabbits, which she does with gusto. There are only two things she doesn’t like: trips to the vet and not being with me … constantly.

Maybe it’s not so much that I don’t want to be an adult anymore, maybe I want to be a dog, a dog owned by someone like me, who treats her like the pretty, pretty princess she is. Well, since that’s not going to happen, I guess I’ll keep adulting.

Sometimes, though, you need a break. Sleep in late and forgo making the bed! (The horror.) Order food and have it delivered. Take a nap at 2:00. Don’t dust, vacuum, sweep, or mop a thing. And please, don’t start a load of laundry, that you’ll forget to place in the dryer until you are missing that pair of jeans you wanted to wear. Watch a movie from 5 to 7 and then another movie from 7 to 9, and not accomplish one damn thing all day! Woot, woot.

Admittedly, some “adults” do this every day, day in and day out. Those people used to be called “lazy bums,” although I’m sure today there are politically correct labels that are employed to describe this behavior or lack thereof (motivationally challenged, unengaged, indolent).

What I’m not interested in is a total return to childhood where I’m served food I don’t want to eat, told when to sleep and when to wake up, even told, “It’s time to use the bathroom.” This can happen temporarily if you are hospitalized. Suddenly, your adulthood is stripped away, “For your own good.” Three meals a day are served on the hospital’s schedule, whether you are hungry or not. Your only choice might be between a pudding cup or Jello. While you can nod off as much as you like, don’t count on sleeping, since blood pressure needs to be checked, and monitors beep and blink, and they are not going to release you until you have a BM, which they will ask you to describe in great detail. As long as you are there, your life is not your own. And let’s not talk about long-term care. This is supposed to be funny.

So somewhere between full-on adulting and living in a nursing home, there have to be small, childlike moments when your mind goes, ahhhh, I remember this feeling. I had one of those moments a few weeks ago, which is what became the inspiration for this column.

My eleven-year-old granddaughter stayed with us for five days. I filled her days with activities … long walks with the dog, horseback riding, a trip to the movies, playing in the hot tub, roasting marshmallows, more walks and hikes, painting rocks, playing cards and Candyland, and watching more movies.

By 9:30, I was exhausted, kaput, tapped out, and ready for bed. Unfortunately, Taylor didn’t seem tired at all, but I just couldn’t do one more thing. We both brushed our teeth, changed into our PJs, and prepared for bed. Taylor wanted to stay up and journal her day. Being a writer, how could I say no to that? I gave her the okay, as long as she stayed in bed, and then I retired to my bedroom down the hall, with both doors open.

A few minutes later, Taylor stood by the side of my bed, scaring the crap out of me.

“Ohmygod, Taylor. Is something wrong? Do you need something?”

In the moonlight streaming through the window, I could see her shake her head. “We forgot to say, 'good night, ' so I came to tuck you in.”

Then she pulled my sheet tight and tucked it in on the side of the bed, patted my shoulder, leaned in and kissed me on my forehead before saying, “Goodnight, Grammy.”

“Goodnight, Taylor. I love you,” I replied.

“I love you, too. See you in the morning.” Then she padded out of the room.

That night, I slept like my ten-year-old self.

Look for new articles on the first and third Wednesdays of the month. But wait, this month has five Wednesdays. This calls for something extra. Stay tuned. On Wednesday, the 30th, for something completely different, a contest, with a fabulous prize!

Please leave comments here. I love reading them. And if you’d like to help a starving artist out (okay, if you’ve seen me, you know I’m not starving. Fine.) please consider becoming a paid subscriber. There’s absolutely nothing in it for you except knowing you’re making my day. Until next time …