I am old enough to be a grown up. I am technically old enough to be a grown-up who has raised another grown-up, but thank goodness I haven’t.
One of my running sticky-notes this week was all of the ways in which I have fallen down on the adulthood front, just since last weekend.
Then I lost that sticky note. So there’s that, too. But here’s my re-creation:
1) I have eaten three drive-through meals. I’m a pretty good cook, but only when I have managed to grocery shop. Nobody could create a meal from the fizzy water and soy coffee creamer and dog treats inhabiting my refrigerator.
2) I paid for two of my drive-through meals with change. At some point this week I lost my ATM card, too, so that’s not going to get any better for 3-5 business days until the next one arrives.
3) I set the coffee pot for the early morning after the late night at Cat’s Cradle. I woke up to hot water, since I’d not managed to pour the water into the coffee pot, and just left it to heat slowly on the warmer.
4) I could find not one single item of clothing to wear that was clean, fit correctly, and was ironed.
5) I could not fathom ironing in a house without an air conditioner at midnight after the Bulls game.
6) I wore a dress to work, which I realized as soon as I got there, was juuuust short enough that I would be self-conscious about it all day. It is no longer in the “work” section of my closet.
7) I walked out of my building at 6 pm and sat down to do the Mr. Rogers-style change into pedestrian commuter ballet flats. The granite bench on which I sat down in my too-short skirt was one zillion degrees. I had to jump up like a cat on hot coals. Comical. But not adult. Neither is the shoe-change situation, but there’s nothing to be done about that.
8) Twice I had to use an umbrella inside my car. Nobody I’ve consulted so far thinks it can be fixed. I have considered the thing where I take it to a giant cliff and weigh the accelerator down with a cinder block, at least giving it a noble Thelma and Louise style departure.
9) This one is the worst. I share a subscription to US Weekly magazine with three other people, whose names I will withhold to protect their reputations. I balked at the subscription in the first place, but then Kate Middleton announced the baby, so we all thought that would be fun. I feel dumber every time I open it, and about two months in I had to make a rule that I wouldn’t crack the cover if I saw a Kardashian anywhere on it. Today I got this:
I’m not even taking it out of my mailbox.
I’ve already been to the tailor this morning, and the dry cleaner, and as soon as I wake up from this nap, I’m going to iron some clothes, go to the grocery store, pay all of my bills, and read something edifying. (And them I’m going to go eat from a taco truck for dinner and stay out late at Cat’s Cradle again.)
That is all. Go on about your Saturdays. Enjoy. Somebody come get my trashy magazine. It’s in the mailbox.