How to Tell if You’re a Grown-Up

So I keep wondering when that grown-up switch is going to flip. You know, the one that will up my maturity quotient and make me suddenly think and behave like an adult.

I’ll go to bed a 28-year-old child and, overnight – flip! – I’ll wake up a 28-year-old mature adult ready and able to do mature adult things.

I’ll know it happened because instead of waking up and thinking of all the possible excuses I could give to call in sick to work (let’s see…did I already say my dog died? What about my grandma? Who else can I kill off…) and hating my alarm for existing, I’ll be a morning-loving work-ready woman of the world. I’ll eat something like a bran muffin for breakfast (to stay regular) and go for a quick run to stretch my glutes. (I don’t know what glutes are.)

I’ll jet off to work calm and rested, not hungover and pissed off. I’ll seamlessly balance being a team-player with being assertive and confidant, and all will applaud my work ethic and my many living family members and pets. (Because I’ll have stopped killing them off…you get it.)

When I get home I’ll clean the beautiful house I was able to buy after learning how to save money (and also how “mortgage” works and how one can buy a house and not actually own it for like forty years and why that makes any sense at all). And when I clean, I’ll actually clean, like with solutions and chemicals and rubber gloves, not the way I do it now, which involves a lot of pushing things under my bed and sweeping up a bunch of dog hair and then kicking it under the couch.

I’ll do laundry more than twice a month and wash my sheets more than…um…

….

Listen, I really don’t wash my sheets a lot. I won’t bore you with facts and data.

Anyway,

I’ll suddenly be able to invest money and do my taxes and know the meaning of terms like “money market account” and “disposable income” (I mean, isn’t that, like, all income? If I dispose of it all on shoes and can’t pay rent it is). I’ll do things like eat balanced meals, even on weekends, and my husband and I will eat dinner at the table instead of on the couch watching Bar Rescue.

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I’ll recycle and give money to charity. (And I won’t take “charity” to mean “the liquor store” like I do now.)

I’ll respond to inquiries about jury duty rather than just ignoring them and hoping the FBI has more important things to do than arrest me.

I’ll join a co-ed kickball team and we’ll spend weekends enjoying good-natured tournaments. I will not become overly competitive until everyone refuses to play with me.

I’ll stop wearing flip-flops that are impractical and I’ll start wearing sneakers everywhere, because they’re just better for you.

Obviously, my maternal instinct will kick in (it’s gotta be in there somewhere, right?) and I’ll not only be desperate for children, but have total faith in my ability to raise them to be protective members of society and not serial killers and sociopaths. I won’t think about all the drinking and traveling I can afford to do if I just avoid buying things like diapers or baby food.

I’ll stop watching things like Catfish: The TV Show and start watching things like CNN and The View.

I’ll stop sleeping in until 1:30 on weekends and instead will get up at 7am to get the most out of my day! I’ll go to bed at a reasonable hour every night, but before I do, I’ll always brush my teeth. I’ll even floss them! (That’s gonna hurt like a bitch at first, though. It’s been a while.) I’ll lotion myself up every time I get out of the shower and I’ll use eye cream under my foundation. I’ll never go to bed with a full face of makeup and false eyelashes because I’m too drunk to find a sink.

I’ll put gas in my car before the light’s been on for 27 miles.

I’ll stop using credit cards as my secret unlimited savings account.

I’ll have plans for the future that are more defined than, “Let’s figure out what we need to give up to pay rent this month.”

I’ll stop pouting. I’m a big pouter. Also, I’ll be able to kill bugs myself instead of making my husband do it while I scream in the corner.

I’ll keep up with dentist appointments and eye appointments and always get my yearly checkup. (Full disclosure: I probably haven’t been to the eye doctor in ten years, and haven’t been to the dentist in like three. Luckily I’m probably going to go blind soon, so having no teeth in my head won’t even bother me.)

I won’t even want to watch seven hours of Law and Order: SVU in one sitting while eating pints of ice cream in my pajamas. I’ll be like, “Ew, seven hours of Law and Order: SVU in one sitting while eating pints of ice cream in my pajamas? Gross. Let’s go get mammograms and colonoscopies together instead. Because we’re grown-ups and you can’t be too careful.”

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As of today, though, I’m still just a giant adult-sized infant, whining when I’m hungry and occasionally peeing myself. I’ll let you know when the switch flips.

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Mistakes My Parents Made: A Look at Childhood in the Eighties

There’s good news and there’s bad news.

The bad news is that it’s been a really long time since my last post, which pretty much destroyed my naive newborn-blog goal of posting once a week. (Two months ago, by the way, I was all, “One post a week? Hogwash! I’ll write a post every single day!” Oh, to be young again.)

The good news, faithful reader, is that during my absence I traveled many miles, to a faraway land only spoken about in the low tones of legends. This place is known as “Florida.” You may have heard of it in such mythical bedtime stories as “Naked Florida Man Killed By Police After Eating Part of Teen’s Face,” or “Florida Man Arrested For Calling 911 After His Cat Was Denied Entry Into A Strip Club,” or even “Topless Woman in a Thong Ransacks Florida McDonald’s, Then Eats Ice Cream,” which, judging by the happy ending, is almost certainly going to be turned into an animated feature by Disney.

If you’re thinking this place sounds too good to be true, you’re wrong. I know, because there reside the two people who made me who received me by Stork Delivery: my parents.

Before the days of Facebook and Instagram and selfies in the bathroom, my mother kept photographic proof that I existed with – wait for it – actual photographs. On paper. She put these photographs in photo albums, which used to be three-dimensional books rather than a link on MySpace. (Surely someone still has a MySpace, right? Cool, good reference on my part.)

During my vacation, I scoured these cracked, yellowing volumes in search of evidence that, lovely as they are, my parents are to blame for the person I am today (crazy, out-of-touch with reality, inexplicably confident, unashamed to laugh openly at my own jokes when no one else is laughing or even present…)

And oh, what evidence did I find.

And so, without further ado, I bring you: Mistakes My Parents Made.

That time that they looked on as their youngest child developed an obvious case of childhood obesity:

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Yes, my older sister did and does have giant feet.

That time they waterboarded my sister and thought it was so hilarious they took this picture of it:

My beautiful pictureWhen I showed this to my mom and waited for her to apologize for this clear abuse of power, she said, “It looks like she’s having fun!”

My beautiful picture

Yeah she’s totally into it.

Clearly I knew I was next (notice the look of terror as I arm myself with weaponry):

My beautiful pictureThat time they mistook me for a Cabbage Patch Doll and tried to sell me in a garage sale:

My beautiful picture

That didn’t really happen.

That time they got me wasted:

Someone cover up that whoring doll.

Someone cover up that whoring doll.

This mullet:

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Seriously, all my dolls are sluts.

Let’s just take a minute to check this out, okay? The girl in this picture is clearly a sociopath and is like someone you’d see on Killer Kids or Hoarders.

I mean, the ears. The hair. The expression.

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Don’t turn out the lights.

This excellent example of a positive role model for girls (although, to be fair, we can probably blame this one on the eighties):

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I still stand that way in pictures.

This hairstyle:

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So it’s straight on the bottom and teased on the top? No no, don’t change a thing. You. Look. Awesome.

This leiderhosen outfit:

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Why haven’t we brought back the side pony?

These outfit choices:

Seriously though, those are some big feet.

That is a lot of coordinated cheetah.

As well as these outfit choices:

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Is it still a vest if it has sleeves?

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Obviously I wore this while I taught P.E.

That Christmas when I was allowed to believe that this was how to smile for pictures:

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This is the smile of a child who’s about to eat your face off, à la Florida Man.

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My dad definitely still gets underwear every Christmas.

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That’s a pretty cool watch though.

These. Haircuts. (I almost can’t even make this one public. Don’t blame my parents…we just didn’t know about hair back then.)

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We clearly never had a chance.

That time we needed props for school pictures (again, not so much my parents’ fault as the eighties in general). Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to be coloring?

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Your punishment is COLORING UNTIL THESE CRAYONS ARE ALL USED UP!!!

Speaking of school pictures, that time my parents allowed me to wear the following shirt on the ONE day of the school year that you’re supposed to set the bar high:

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Let’s immortalize this one forever.

I could go on, but I’ve become too ashamed. Basically, everything everyone did from like 1978 to around 1994 was just a huge, glaring mistake.

Take a look through your parents’ photos and you’ll see what I mean.

May as well start looking for a good therapist while you’re at it. You’re gonna need it.