Occasionally, I realize that I am nearing my 30s. It scares the living beejezus out of me, mostly because I always assumed that I would be a sorted, responsible adult by this point.
I had visions of myself at this point, having collected a husband, a home and a honda, and toiling at some sort of adult career. More to the point, the idea was that I would be capable of running a household, cooking wholesome meals, and generally getting shit done.
Well that didn't happen. Oops.
Now, I approach my 30s with the same dread that I used to approach the principle's office. Its the sinking feeling that I know that I have misbehaved and should feel bad and try to straighten up and fly right, but damned if throwing spitwads just isn't more fun.
I blame the sex industry.
I don't blame the sex industry for much, but I am sure that it is the reason that I fail quite so spectacularly at being a functional adult.
For the past decade, I have had no real responsibilities. I am not working towards any particular future, I don't have to worry about a professional reputation, largely because I don't have to worry about interviews, background checks, any of it. I've got perkies and a pulse, I'll get a job! I've had no need to plan or budget, no one to answer to if I sleep in, turn up late, or go home early. I can (and do) drink on the job, take unlimited smoke breaks, and have as many holidays as I want. I can also continue to pierce and tattoo my entire body. It actually helps me earn more.
Because of this, I have completely forgotten everything that I had started to learn as a lowly office worker in my early twenties. I know that at one point, I was capable of getting up early, hitting the gym, working a full eight hours, and picking up dinner ingredients on the way home. But I have NO IDEA how I did those things. I try, occasionally, to do it again, but by the time I have spent one whole day doing things, I feel like I need a break. Then I spend the next day on the couch, drinking wine straight from the bottle and watching entire seasons of Star Trek at a time.
Occasionally I meet, or socialize with people who decided to actually grow up, and are real adults. I look at them with the same expression my dog has when she sees me work the can opener.
On one hand, I could make a real effort to learn how to be an adult again. I could assume that at some point, I will have to get a vanilla job, stock up on suits and just glory in my current world of irresponsible semi-alcoholism.
Alternatively, I can assume that by the time I am ready to stop diddling myself for rent money, I will be a published writer. And then I can live out my days in the same way - sleeping till nine, drinking at noon, working sporadically and whenever inspiration strikes. I have to assume that there are others like me who never got the instruction manual on becoming Marge Simpson, and maybe we can get together for afternoon martinis and laugh at people who struggle to get six hours of sleep.
I'd rather be a Lost Girl than a Grown Woman.
"If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!”
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