When I was a kid, I had such plans for my adultdom. I was full of dreams- big ones, in fact! I just knew I would achieve them.
But today, as I brewed *another* cup of coffee because I was so tired, I realized how far I have fallen. What would that young dreamer I once was think of this desire to nap, when there is a magic box called Netflix that makes it possible to watch endless reruns of Punky Brewster? Even my nine year-old self could tell you my lack of Punky time is a travesty, and she didn’t learn that word until high school!
I have yet to check off that bucket list I made when I still rocked the full 80s layering effect: yellow hair scrunchy, mint green shirt, yellow shorts, mint green socks, yellow socks, and mint green Keds. At some point in my life I drank the boring adult kool-aid, and now I care about stuff like laundry, savings accounts, and programming the new garage door opener.
For starters, I am supposed to be riding everywhere on my own double-decker bus, not driving a clunky fifteen year old Toyota Sequoia:
I have clearly failed myself.
My life proves that growing up is a trap. I thought I would do awesome stuff once I was out from under the thumb of childhood, like eat the frozen grape juice concentrate straight out of the freezer and install a 7-11 style soda fountain in my kitchen. Instead I force myself to drink nasty green juice and eat more fiber.
Good grief.
I have not achieved my dream career. I am ashamed to say I am not a professional ballerina/animal activist/movie star who moonlights as a car hop at Sonic. My adult life doesn’t involve roller skating at all, actually, which means the world lost its chance to be dazzled by TRUE GREATNESS.
Nine year-old me would call this life of mine a waste of good talent.
I even ruin pizza now. Adults put ridiculous garbage on pizzas. I personally enjoy figs and prosciutto on mine. This indicates that the years have caused my palate to be banished into some kind of kid-food-hell. Nine year-old me would cry out for mercy if she had to eat figs in any form other than Newton. She planned to eat entire cheese pizzas as an adult, then wash it down with a “Suicide” dispensed by the kitchen 7-11. Not to mention, I am also supposed to be using Red Vines as straws now that I get to choose all the stuff at the store all by myself. I AM MISSING OUT ON EVERYTHING COOL as I quietly nosh on figgy pizza and sip sparkling water without a straw.
Being an adult was supposed to be, like, totally rad but is, in fact, so lame.
Adults get to do whatever they want and yet they totally ruin it, wanting stuff like more sleep, a clean house, and a shot at retirement. We want to watch documentaries about farms and talk about books that don’t have a single joke about farts in them. What has happened to us???
It wouldn’t be so horrible if our own kids weren’t so shazaamalicious, rubbing our faces in our boring lives with their juvenile antics.
This morning, my sons whacked a Kids Bop CD repeatedly with a rock on the back porch, just because it’s fun to watch annoying music explode into pieces. (I shed a tiny tear at the precision of their ironic sense of humor.)
My daughter prayed today that God would make her imaginary world called Rainbowland real. She asked so expectantly, I fully expected to be magically transformed into a unicorn who bakes gummy bears in her golden oven of sugarplums. (That girl has some fresh ideas about how to be an amazing human, and she is not allowed to grow up and be like me. Ever.)
All this occurred while my husband spent the day mowing the lawn and and I installed a broom organizer. I AM ORGANIZING BROOMS, YOU GUYS. We even high-fived over lawn fertilizer. It’s just so sickening.
I want to be nine years old again. I want to jump on a trampoline and eat candy until I am sick and *almost* sorry, and then perfect my back flip when I feel fine again twenty minutes later. That’s called winning, man! I want to be so tired from playing whole-neighborhood hide-and-seek that I collapse into bed dirty and disgusting, without brushing my teeth. I want to think that sleeping in my own filth while my teeth rot in my head is a treat! I want to draw 127 pictures of Garfield and then spend twenty hours coloring them before I wallpaper the whole house with them (and get totally busted by my dad for ruining the drywall). I want to forget yesterday, not care about tomorrow, and live for this moment right now.
A total ignorance and dismissal of responsibility was the only thing I had to carry with me from my childhood in order to become the best adult ever. But I lost it somewhere along the way, probably while I changed a flat tire on my way to work during college. I bet it’s still sitting on the side of the 405 freeway, wishing it could hitchhike to Disneyland.
I got caught in the adult trap. What’s done is done. I can’t stop caring about justice and love and mercy. I like seeing my responsible choices make the world a better place. I love to remember where we came from, plan where we are heading, and hold where we are carefully, so that this moment right now wraps around my people and keeps them safe and warm.
Being an adult means accepting reality with brave determination, so I’ll soldier on, I suppose.
Besides, when I was nine years old again, I didn’t know the future would have a magic Keurig coffee machine, or that the grocery store would sell 273 different flavored creamers. It’s kind of like 7-11 and Rainbowland all mixed together, right?
Well, maybe not. But I’ll take it. But this year for Christmas, I’m asking Santa for a double decker bus, just for kicks. See? I can still be fun after all.
