Adulthood is Hard. I Assume.

I’m not an adult yet, but I do hand wash my delicate clothing items, which makes me feel like I have some authority to speak on maturity.  But—what even is adulthood?  When will I be considered a “grown-up?”  Will it be when my parents stop paying my cell phone bill?  Or when I stop doing fun things because I don’t want to deal with parking?

I like to think of myself as a highly functioning, responsible human being.  And yet, I am still in college, I primarily subsist on Lean Cuisines, and I always feel oddly proud whenever I complete basic adult activities.  When I go to the bank and talk to the stranger that works there, or ship a package at UPS, I am immediately filled with this elation like, “Look at me, I’m a machine of production!!  Next, I’ll Swiffer the floor and google how to fix my garbage disposal!”  But then, the exhaustion sets in.  The disheartenment.  The knowledge that I’m going to have to complete such tasks for the rest of my life, and no one is going to give me a lollipop, or take me out to ice cream, or pat me on the head and praise me for a job well done.  Knowing how to call Time Warner Cable doesn’t make me special.  

Last weekend, as I was walking along the Venice Beach boardwalk, I saw a small baby pug dog wrapped in a bright red T-shirt.  It was like a tiny, fuzzy little E.T., with a perfect wrinkly face and a permanently forlorn expression.  “I yam selling eet!” announced a woman wearing a babushka, thrusting the miniature creature into my welcoming arms.  I could feel it shivering as it attempted to burrow its face into my hands.  As I kissed the top of its head, it raised its eyes to meet my loving gaze.  And it looked at me like I had just killed its entire family.

The happiest I've ever been

"Life isn't worth it anymore."

At that moment, something inside of me--some dam of crazy, insane-person emotion--spontaneously collapsed.  I yielded the small E.T. into its owner's arms, and whipped out my cell phone to call my mom.

“MOMMY I MET A PUPPY AND IT IS SO LITTLE AND SAD CAN I SAVE IT?” I stammered into the receiver, without greeting or introduction.  To be clear, I don’t live with my parents anymore.  I’m not sure why I wanted my mom’s permission, when my roommates, or my 112-year-old landlord named “Bill,” might have had more to say on the subject.  But as someone who receives an allowance and often only feeds herself with a continually replenished supply of Torero Dining Dollars, I felt I needed her blessing, or at least her cold, objective reason to appeal to my irrational mind.  I needed her to remind me how to exercise restraint.  But it was too late—and in the middle of the crowded boardwalk, I began to convulsively cry.  “It looked at me!  And it didn’t know I loved it!  It didn’t know that anybody loved it!  I just want it to know that I care!” I breathlessly blubbered.  I imagined adopting “E.T.” and bringing him home to dress him in a cute little hoodie.  I envisioned myself attaching a basket to my bike and carting him around.  And then, I imagined “E.T.” and I traveling the world, on a mission to give one million tiny pugs one million tiny hugs.  On the other end of the phone, my mother was speechless.  I think we both realized that I was not yet an adult.

In my imagination, I am a strong, confident, intimidating boss-lady who knows how to command respect.  In reality, I am a person who cries in public when she sees a baby pug.  But does that mean that I’m immature?  Or does it just mean that I have a tender heart, and perhaps some deeply seeded emotional issues I’ve never dealt with?  

I don’t know.  I’m not sure I want to be an adult.  A reliable career, economic independence, putting posters in frames and keeping potted plants alive… these are things I look forward to.  But please: grant me these four months until graduation to cry about pug dogs.  I was always so eager to grow up—to have long hair, to read chapter books, to wear deodorant.  But sometimes it’s all too much, and I find myself wishing life would just slow down.  I want to go to my parents’ house and order Netflix and indulge in their fully stocked pantry.  I want to eat home-cooked dinners and be continually reminded to get a haircut.  And at night, I want to lie in my old bedroom, the shrine to my 14-year-old self, and google image after image of baby pugs.

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