The other day I was binge-watching shows on Netflix. It was a cop drama, my fave. The lady cop was going through a box of childhood belongings, and I saw a beanie baby in the mix.
My first thought? “She’s WAY too old to have played with beanie babies as a kid! I played with those! And she’s a grown-up cop!”
Wait a minute. She’s probably late 20’s, same as me.
Holy crap I’m an adult.
I have no clue when it happened, or how I managed not to notice. I’m married. I have several nieces and nephews. My husband and I are thinking about starting a family. I pay taxes. How did this escape me?
Somewhere a shift happened. I’m no longer in that “young” demographic. Teenage soap opera addiction aside (I love me some Pretty Little Liars), I have more in common with the parents in a sitcom than the kids. I’m no longer the youngest person in my office. In my head I’m still a teen.
Maybe that’s just how it goes. One day we realize that we’re in the next phase. We can’t stop the world from moving forward, and if we’re lucky, we’ll keep moving with it.
I’m older now than my mom was when she became a mother. Considering how little I know now, this fact is completely terrifying. It’s finally dawning on me that my parents really were making it up as they went along. I had always assumed that they knew everything. Now as I’m thinking of starting my own family, I realize that I’ll be doing the same.
There is no trick to adulthood. There is no one to tell you if you’re actually doing it right. Well, there are jerks who will give their 2 cents, but nobody really knows for sure. Not even Oprah.