I have an admission, readers: I am a fake. A giant phony.
For the last 12 years I have been masquerading around as “an adult,” doing adult-ish things like paying my bills and voting and occasionally listening to the adult contemporary radio station. (Shut up. Sometimes you just have a hankering for Adele.) And, except for the keenly insightful among you, you probably bought it.
The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. None. I feel like I am still in that post-college haze, aping what my approximation of what “grown up” looks like during the day — skirts and sensible shoes and Tupperware containers filled with leftovers — but at night, à la Batman, the real Erin comes out. I continue to make up life as it comes, eating cottage cheese and carrots for supper if the mood strikes; having staring contests with my fiance, Drew, until we break into fits of giggles; using binder clips to secure my ponytail if I can’t find a hair tie. I ran out of napkins the other week, so I folded a Frosty the Snowman dish towel in my lap.
This does not strike me as the work of a true adult.
Drew and I are about to close on our first home, meaning I will be an honest-to-goodness homeowner soon, meaning I will own actual property, with taxes and repairs and a roof and, I hope, working plumbing.
Is this the minute when I really become an adult?
I thought I would “arrive” when I made my final payment on my very own car. Or when I bought my first kitchen table. Or when I successfully figured out when to use “farther” and when to use “further.”
All those moments have all come and gone, and what I’ve been left with is a pretty sweet Dodge named Celine Neon and a kitchen table covered with crumbs and place mats that could use a good washing.