I had a serious bout of “but I don’t want to be an adult anymore!” last night.
Sometime between walking into the house to discover that the main water line to the house had backed up – for the third time – and opening the twice-as-much-as-expected power bill, my brain just decided to shut off. I bailed water out of the house, I put the bills in the “to be paid” pile, I still got dinner going, and even managed to build a fire in our fireplace (which has been a saving grace of relaxation the last few days) – but beyond that small 1/10th of my brain that was keeping me going, I wanted to curl up and throw a tempter tantrum.
Most days I do pretty well – and love life. Every once in a while, though, I realize that at 23 I feel like I *should* be … somewhere else? I never really had Big Plans of Getting The Perfect Job or getting the Nobel or such, but I always imagined that life would have started to coalesce more at this point. That money wouldn’t be a practically constant concern. That I could relax more. That adventures of the not-so-mundane style could ensue.
A highly statistically significant portion of my high school class is now married, mostly with kids. I find nothing wrong with that choice- and in many ways envy things about it. On the same token, I always knew that wasn’t for me. I don’t think I’m grasping as much these days to figure out who I am – I am, however, conscious of the fact that I still don’t “feel” like a grownup. In many ways, I feel like I’m just the same overgrown 12 year old with too much self-imposed responsibility that my parents claim I’ve been since the age of 9.
Some days, I wonder what not caring would be like. Then I realize that no matter how much I wonder, I could never be happy not caring. I just want to find a way to balance them.
