2015 means I'm going to be 30. Like, in three months, I'm going to be entering my 30s. I'm not sure what age women are supposed to start lying, but suddenly 30 doesn't feel so young anymore. I think it's because when I was fresh, stupid college kid, I also pictured 30 as my "I'll be a grown up then" year. Like somehow I'd magically feel old enough to handle all the responsibility that comes with being an adult into today's world. But I wouldn't just "handle" it, I'd own it, I'd rock it, with the grace and beauty of a 30-year-old woman (who still looked so young she got carded when ordering drinks).
Let's go ahead and laugh about all that for a good minute.
Done, now? Awesome.
Turns out, growing older, aging - really are all relative - and your age is just a number.
There, I said it. I'm a crappy adult.
Am I the only one who pictured adulthood much, much different than this? I'm not even talking about the mountain of bills and responsibility, I'm actually talking about me. Me as an adult. Am I the only one who pictured myself being good at being a grown up?
You might be asking yourself "what precisely makes a good adult?"
Well, friends, probably not me. I mean, I'll say this, I've managed to keep not just myself and a small host of animals alive over the last few years, but two small children - so I think we can say I'm at least managing adulthood. I'm just not succeeding at.
When I was a teenager, I hated cleaning my room. I hated hanging my clothes up, making my bed, doing the dishes, sweeping the floor, essentially anything that involved effort that wasn't my friends or boyfriend, I didn't like doing it. Shocking, right?
Well, turns out, growing older does not make you enjoy those chores anymore than you did when you were 15. Who woulda thunk it?
I think I've been living in lalaland for the last 29 years. I mean, Im serious, folks. I kind of always thought I would get married, have some babies and then magically enjoy having a clean room. Or say, magically develop an interest in keeping the kitchen remotely crumb-free, but alas, I apparently missed the train to adulthood.
Turns out when you're a messy teenager you simply grow into a messy adult - possibly messier, because I have far more shoes and dresses than I ever did when I was growing up.
And this probably wouldn't be that big of a deal if my husband and I hadn't decided to spawn two little human beings. Two additional bodies that are simply doubling the clutter and mess and sure as heck have no desire to clean up (geez, wonder who they got that from). It makes it even more difficult because our daughter is finally getting smart enough to realize we're asking her to clean her room and put her boots where they go, but mommy can't seem to remember how to use a hanger or put her boots under the bench like she should. In fact, sometimes mommy leaves her boots on the coffee tables because she's apparently a 16-year-old girl trapped in an almost-30-year-old mother's body.
She hasn't said it yet. She hasn't asked yet why we make her pick up her toys and put things back where they go, yet mommy can't seem to even remotely follow the same guidelines, but it's starting to formulate in her brain. I can see the wheels and gears turning. She's close to discovering mommy is a very crappy adult and is utilizing double standards against her left and right.
And because she's my daughter, she's going to call me on it. And she'll probably do it with one hand planted on her hip and the perfect I'm-sassy-and-you're-going-to-listen-to-me tilt to her head (both of which she learned from mommy as well).
I may not be the most grown-up adult out there, but I've got the whole fiesty, hear-me-roar, I'm woman thing down.
So at least there's that.
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