Remember when all you wanted to be was a grown-up? People would stop telling you what to do, what to wear, and how to act and you would be in charge? Well, I hate being a grown-up. Some weeks I’m okay with the fact that when I’m lying in bed throwing my booger filled tissues on the floor that two days later, as the grown-up, I am going to have to pick up the remainders of my cold. Some weeks I can deal with the fact that I can’t blame anyone else when my sweater shrinks, we run out of diet Dr Pepper, or when the back door is left unlocked. My husband and I use grown-up as the code word to tell our kid she can’t do something she wants to, like sliding down the booth to the floor of the restaurant to enjoy a fine whine. “Be the grown-up,” the one sitting across from her will snark at the one sitting next to her. The grown-up will have to haul her up, lecture her, and be the bad guy for the rest of the day.
This week grown-up went a little too far. Do I go to my friend’s dad’s funeral or go visit my brother in the hospital? Do I keep my cat on dialysis, at the cost of $1000 per day, or do I let the 7 year old feline we adore die a slow painful death? Do I go see our family shrink so she can shed some light on familial turmoil or do I make that critical meeting at work that will build bridges and may set me up for my next promotion? Oh, and the damn dishwasher broke, so I have plenty of time to ponder these decisions while I scrub gross cat food bowls and egg crusted pans. This morning while I was scrubbing I really should have been working on that $700,000 proposal for work, but whatever. The manual labor grown-up task won.
I don’t want to be 18, or 23 or 30 again, but I want one day as not a grown-up. I want to go lay in the hammock because it’s a nice day. I want to go meet my girlfriends for happy hour and not worry about when I need to get home. If I decide I want to get drunk I want to get drunk. I want someone else to pick up my snotty tissues for me if I do the not-grown-up thing and cry about all this crap going on.
Now, I have to stop playing on my blog and go do some dishes, or write a proposal, or call my brother. Ugh! Grown-up sucks.
7 thoughts on “Being a Grown-Up”
Your very right. Somedays being a grown up totally sucks. Like when you have a cold and you wish you could just lie in your childhood bed and have your mom fuss over you!
Ah, my mom would always make pancakes for me when I was sick. I could use some right now.
Being a grown up is the worst! I wish we could start old and grow younger every year.
Not me, because then I’d have to look forward to someone else wiping my behind again. Oh wait… that probably happens regardless of which direction we age.
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Thinking of you and wishing I was there to help you with all the “grown up” things 😦
I never grew up. I’m a senior citizen (so I’m told) but I consider myself an adult child and my book, A Berkshire Tale, is an adult/children’s book. My husband, Charley, told a golfing buddy of his that I had published an adult/children’s book and he exclaimed “Clare writes kitty porn!?” Now what was going on in that man’s tiny brain, I ask you! Have fun….Clare
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Kitty porn?!? Well now I have to track down a copy. I have juvenile tendencies myself, but luckily I can hide them behind my seven year old right now. In a few years my children book and crayon habit are going to start looking suspicious.