I believe adulthood is some sort of construct placed in our minds by our parents when we're young. "BRITNI NICOLE, YOU ACT YOUR AGE," was heard countless times in my childhood, but I'm not even sure what that means. What 8-year-old chooses to be a stuffy brat? What 25/35/55/85-year-old chooses to be a stuffy brat? When does adulthood happen? Does God have feet? What the hell is the stock market? I just have so many questions. . .
I think technically/legally/whatever I am one, but I don't feel like it. As far as I'm concerned, I will sit at the kids table for eternity, and that's totally cool. Because I think everyone else has a skewed perception on what it means to be an adult. Just me? Fair enough.
The following is a list (I love lists) I have compiled of things I thought I'd have by my twenties, and so far, at 23, I don't.
Things I Thought I'd Have By My Twenties
(but definitely don't)
- Acceptance into a Master's Program
- A larger video game collection
- A relationship moving towards the idea of marriage
- A better understanding of life, the universe, and everything
- A swanky apartment with chic leather furniture
- A meaningful career as a rock star/archaeologist/illustrator/dinosaur
- More tattoos
- The ability to make myself presentable
- The skills of a witty conversationalist
- A grip on reality via Cosmo and my Twitter feed
- The closet of a responsible adult
- A working definition of the words "responsible" and "adult"
- More guitars
- More Twitter followers ahahaaha
- A really awesome MySpace page
- The ability to stifle childish laughter brought on by anything remotely sexual
- The experience of beating Donkey Kong 64
- A home bar and library
- No student debt
- Self-control when it comes to chocolate
- Social skills
Thirty's a way off. . .maybe by then. Until December of 2019, I'll be the one at the kids table with black olives on her fingers, Kool-aid moustache on her face, and a plate full of snickers salad. Don't you judge me.