I like being a grown-up.
I almost feel guilty for saying so— society at large is notorious for having the opposite feeling, accompanied by pictures of cats face-planted on a carpet with the caption “I CAN’T ADULT TODAY.” And I get that feeling. I really do. As Zach could attest, I get overwhelmed very easily by responsibility.
On one hand, yeah, there’s the bill-paying and the high stakes of your decisions and the Jehovah’s Witnesses on your doorstep and the three inches of water in the basement after the flood (which in turn causes FEMA to rezone your entire area so that you now have to have flood insurance even though you didn’t before— not that I would know).
On the other hand, though, you know exactly your place in the hierarchy of the world. You know exactly what’s expected of you. This means you can choose to completely ignore those expectations if you want, because you know what? You’re a grown-up.
Case in point:
You can eat cake for breakfast.
You don’t have to fold fitted sheets if you don’t want to. (‘Cause it’s impossible, unless you resort to witchcraft. And since I don’t do witchcraft, I don’t fold fitted sheets.)
You can say “no” to obligations.
If you want pizza, you can go out and buy pizza. And if you want more pizza, you can buy another pizza.
You can wear muddy shoes into the house. (Granted, you have to clean up the mud afterward, but you can still do it.)
You don’t have to have a heart attack if you forget to put a cover on your bowl of spaghetti in the microwave.
Tasks that seemed torturously laborious as a kid (such as washing curtains) are suddenly no big deal.
You can establish the rules of your own family (whether you’re single, married, or have kids).
Perhaps I’m still suffering from the optimism of youth, or the privilege of having sufficient funds for my lifestyle, or the delusion of life before children... but so far, I’m really enjoying being a grown-up. I had a pretty ideal childhood, but I’m still glad to be out on my own, calling my own shots, and trying to emotionally and spiritually mature as I head toward my thirties. And no, I don’t actually eat cake for breakfast— I eat oatmeal. How boringly grown-up is that?