I think that, technically speaking, I’m an adult. I look like an adult. I’m the right age to be an adult. I can drive, vote, buy liquor, rent a car, sign for a hotel room, pay taxes, nurture plants, etc.
But I don’t really feel like an adult. I feel like a 26-year-old intern living in a mouse-infested frat house with a 34-year-old toddler who can’t even get it together to pay our gas bill.
That’s right– our gas was turned off this week. No hot showers, no working stove. So we opened our roommate’s mail to find a notice of discontinuation because he hadn’t paid the gas bill in three months. Luckily for him, he is currently traveling in Asia, so he hasn’t had to face us yet…or the burnt popcorn we dumped in his underwear drawer as retribution.
You know, if I had been born in the 1930s, I would probably be married with 2.5 kids by now. I’d have a house, a dog, a lovely red sofa, my own cookware, and blossoming garden of herbs. I’m not saying that’s necessarily preferable, although it is a stark contrast to my current living situation, where three adult women and two adult men share a kitchen the size of a postage stamp with a rarely-functional dishwasher, an old couch that is so torn up we have to strategically cover the rough spots with “throw blankets,” and one storage closet that our landlord has locked us out of because he felt like it was “too cluttered” with our belongings.
For this reason, I am thrilled to announce that yesterday, I closed the deal on a shiny new house in Mount Pleasant where three girlfriends and I will be relocating on the first of June. This house is far superior to my current house because A) it has a yard and a deck, B) it has a pool table that converts into a dining room table, C) we will be bringing our own furniture, D) our landlord is allowing me to adopt a dog and E) my roommates are all (well, mostly) clean, responsible women who are just as excited about having a normal, well-kept house as I am and will actually pay our utility bills.
Every time I think about this new house, I picture myself reclining on the front porch with a little dog on my lap and a mug of freshly-brewed coffee in my hand, playing scrabble with my roommates and waving to our young, hip neighbors as they pass. Oh, it’s going to be glorious.