Does adulting mean becoming your parents?
Sometimes something flies out of my mouth and I have to race to the mirror to make sure I haven’t turned into my mother.
…or my father.
Does adulting mean I need a specific table cloth for every holiday? Do I need to buy fancy Christmas china and gold color silverware? Or is that just my parents?
Should I model after my dad and have every single appliance known to man, including the little buzzing spider that stirs your gravy for you? Am I supposed to play Enya on repeat every time I have guests?
Should I obsess over everyone else’s garbage and make dumpster suggestions like my mother?
Should I spend my weekends considering how to bring up the value of my home, or futzing with my stereo for the optimal sound experience?
Do I start using words like “futz” and talk with my hands like my Italian father?
Do I begin shopping at Costco and buying gross “Pub” snackies in bulk?
Am I supposed to deep-clean my house and pick up dog poop twice a week like my mom? (Probably. That would probably be a good life choice.)
What I’m getting at here is that I don’t think I have to approach adulting the same way my parents approach adulting. I’ve already covered that they’ve been really good at pretending they know what they’re doing. So, I guess, if they’re good at pretending, then that doesn’t mean I can’t be just as good at pretending. But I don’t have to do it the same way they are.
And that’s pretty badass.