Dear Adult Me,
I feel like I still have years before I have to meet you, but the truth is that you’ve moved in next door and are peering through your perfectly shined windows, waiting for the fateful day when I acknowledge your existence and invite you inside. Or maybe we could meet at the bakery across from your modest, yet airy apartment. We’ll both get “the usual” (a sampling of at least three breakfast pastries) from Peg, the baker. True to her tough-love style, Peg jokes that your diet might lead to diabetes, but notes you can afford it, because you go to the gym regularly. You do go to the gym regularly, right? Of course you do, Adult Me. You finally found a way to brainwash yourself into enjoying exercise.
Adult Me, you can pay for breakfast; I’m a college student, and you’ve got that cool media job where the décor is IKEA chic, and the atmosphere is Pixar–levels of drive, quirk, and goof. I know you work hard, Adult Me, but for all the anxious sighs and frantic Lorelai Gilmore–paced conversations, busy looks so much better on you than it does on me. Maybe it’s the fact that there are no visible food stains on your clothing or the way your hair is playful, yet contained. Adult Me, I truly cannot believe you found a way to make bangs work after all these years!
Let’s head up to your apartment. Wow, Adult Me, I love the exposed brick! Those paintings and photographs ride the line between tasteful and pretentious very well. Oh, I see you changed out of your cool leather jacket and into age-appropriate loungewear. You look like you’re not expecting anyone, but if your well-cheekboned-and-scruffed-up boyfriend came around, he would be pleasantly surprised at your ass in those leggings. Okay, we’re here to talk about maturity now, so let’s get down to business. Will we have coffee and talk about the news? Or will we crack open a bottle of wine (each only having one glass—we are responsible adults) and complain about our taxes?
I know I’m supposed to find a way of inviting you over to my place, but I can’t help but think that everyone from my dental hygienist to my loving parents is poised outside my window, waiting eagerly like paparazzi for my “Next Big Move.” This terrifies me, so I’m sorry, Adult Me, if sometimes you feel excluded. I know that sometimes I ignore your whining about finishing my work or getting enough sleep in favor of sledding with friends on the lids of my storage containers. Adult Me, you can’t take over. I don’t want to become someone finds Dilbert funny and complains about having another birthday every year. On the other hand, I know I can’t create some Peter Pan-esque fantasy and pretend you don’t exist. Neverland is magical, but the Lost Boys never do their laundry and the WiFi there is so spotty. There must be ways to compromise. Someone recently told me that becoming an adult means realizing when to still be a kid. If I try, I think I can follow you into the adult world with a little fairy dust still settling on my business-casual blouse.
Adult Me, it’s okay if our relationship is fragile and awkward. Right now, I’m under a lot of pressure to spend time with you, but I bet more grown up people than you’d think still hold their adult selves up on a tightrope, waiting for the other to fall in some weird trust exercise. So, Adult Me, I hereby agree to fake it til I make it. But when does that happen? Does maturity happen when I finally feel comfortable in that red lipstick you rock every weekend? Or is it when I resort to wearing spanx under dresses to prepare for exposing wind? It’s probably when I finally have an answer to what I want to be when I grow up.
Although, since I may never truly know what I want to do, I’ve changed my mind. Let’s agree to disagree. You work on making it, I’ll still fake it, and we’ll meet every Wednesday for gossip and Happy Hour—drinks on you.
Image: homedsgn.com