Recently I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a grown up. I’m going to be the big 3-0 in two years time… I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a grown up. Do you know how I know this? Because I do all of these things:
- Using the outdoor washing line so I don’t have crunchy towels. I hate crunchy towels. I like my Mama’s towels. Her towels are always soft. It doesn’t matter how many outdoor washing lines I have, or how much fabric softener I use, my towels are never soft. My towels hate me.
- Owning a bag for life. Even though I never use it unless I need somewhere to store my housemates laundry to prevent leaving it on the floor when their stuff is in the washing machine I want to use. Or for when I clear my closet out. Or when I’m moving house. That’s it though. I never use the bag for life in quite the way they have been intended. I have a drawer filled with bags for life. Those fuckers are gonna outlive me, that’s for sure. They don’t ever get used. That’s why they are a bag for life. It’s a con.
- Not eating the entire bar of chocolate. I can actually open a bar, eat like five squares, wrap it up and put it back in the cupboard now. When I wasn’t a grown up, I would have eaten the entire bar. Chocolate in resealable bags were wasted on me. Now I use the resealable bags. I’m a grown up now. I can say no when enough is enough. Well, sometimes anyway.
- I own an umbrella. When I wasn’t a grown up, I danced in the rain. I love the rain. I find the rain weirdly romantic in a wet kinda way. One of my ultimate fantasies is to recreate the scene in Nine and a Half Weeks where they fuck in the rain, on the stairs, down a deserted alley. So hot. Too hot. But now I’m an adult, the rain worries me. My makeup might run. My shoes are suede so they can’t get wet. I straightened my hair this morning, and it’ll go frizzy if it’s wet. I’ll be wet… Back then I didn’t care.
- I worry about what my house looks like. The first apartment I rented with Bestie almost ten years ago was a shit hole. We d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d it. My bedroom had a brand new white fluffy carpet installed and it was lush. I spilled red wine on it at one of our first parties, dropped ashtrays all over the floor, and burnt a bit with my hair straighteners. That’s what you get for renting out to an eighteen year old pair of dicks. Now I’m a grown up, I care about what my crib looks like. I want my other half to come over when it’s tidy, clean, and looking nice. He can’t come in if it’s a mess. Plus who knows what I might have left lying around. I don’t want anyone in my crib if it doesn’t look right. Not even my mother.
- I don’t like drinking anymore and I suffer with three day hangovers. Actual three day hangovers. Not exaggerated ones. You know that thing they tell you when you’re young – you’ll grow outta partying every night and one day your hangovers will kill you? Yep, that truly does happen.
- Eating Ceasar salad. What an adult dinner dish. As I sprinkle on the Parmesan cheese and top it all off with a few croutons, I admire my handiwork and think to myself, what an adult dinner! It even looks like a grown up dinner, all healthy and nutritious and colourful. Apparently all of us grow up in the end…
- Walking past 18 year old versions of myself. Or even younger these days. I see them – the little blonde girls with the big blue eyes and the badass streak and I think, what happened to me? I used to be one of those girls. Now I worry about paying my mobile phone bill on time and whether or not my sun cream is strong enough for me to avoid getting cancer with my pale white skin and plentiful moles.
So there you have it. I’m a grown up. I get excited by things like a new washing machine or a new vacuum cleaner, and I worry about whether or not I’ve had the time to bleach the downstairs toilet this week. I think before I spend money, and bills come before new shoes. I would rather have an easy life and long for a relationships without too many dramas.
I’m a grown up. Are you a grown up too?
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