My So-Called Life

I have this idea of what adult life is supposed to be like. In the adult world, people have cozy, comfortable homes---whether an apartment or a house---with matching furniture, tasteful decorations, flowers in vases, and candles that are always lit. They keep these homes neat and clean and would never be embarrassed to have an unexpected visitor. In the mornings, they wake up in these nice homes, take out clean, well-pressed, color-coordinated clothes from the closet where they are neatly arranged on hangers, make a cup of coffee, and read the newspaper. At night, they go back to these homes and pour themselves a glass of wine, turn on NPR or some grown-up music like classical or jazz, and light their candles. Then, they make a nice, healthy dinner with a salad, a main course, and a couple of side dishes, which they eat at a table with a plate, matching utensils, and a napkin. They do their dishes, clean the kitchen, and retire to a comfortable, yet dignified chair to watch television---something enlightening or at least sophisticated---read a book, or do the crossword puzzle. They always pay their bills on time, know how much is in their bank account, and have both a savings account and a retirement plan to which they contribute faithfully. They take out their trash. They keep their cars clean and well maintained, and if something does go wrong, they know what to do about it. The same with their home: they change the filters, replace lightbulbs, check the smoke detectors, and keep their appliances in good repair.

This is not what my life is like. Nearly ten years after graduation, my furniture is a mish-mash of junk giveaways, with no one piece matching any other piece. None of it is anything I would have actually paid money for. I’m propping a missing chair leg with a pile of books and using a sleeping bag as my bedspread. Rowen’s crate doubles as an end table. I’d be horrified to have any visitor, expected or not, because they would see the inch layer of dog hair covering the carpet and my own hair balls rolling through like tumbleweeds. And they might smell the trash, which never seems to get taken out in time. My smoke detector battery started dying this morning, so I took the whole thing down; I know I should just replace the battery but I guarantee you that it will still be sitting on the counter when I move out six months from now. I can’t remember the last time I read a newspaper. Getting dressed in the morning usually means choosing the least-wrinkled, least-stained items from one of the piles around the bedroom. I have more clothes on top of the dresser than in it. Color-coordination, if it happens, is mostly accidental. I’m trying on the cooking front, but more often than not, it’s takeout or leftovers eaten straight from the Tupperware container with mismatched utensils and a paper towel as a napkin. And even if I do cook, I still can only manage one item at a time. My biggest success to date was when I put together eggplant parmesan, pasta, and a salad. That was Sunday. As in, this past Sunday. It took me 29 years to do that. I eat my pitiful dinners in front of the “television” (my laptop on a tray) while watching such WB staples as Buffy the Vampire Slayer or the Gilmore Girls. I get my bills paid on time about half the time. I play Russian roulette with my checking account. Savings? Retirement? Ha! I consider it a good month if I don’t have to use my credit card for groceries and gas. My car is a sty---the front dash is coated in dust, the back seat is barely visible under the dog hair. It probably smells, but I’ve become too used to it to tell. I remember to get the oil changed about every six months and I have to call my dad if anything goes wrong. I have more burned out lightbulbs than functioning ones. I keep the blinds open so the streetlight will reflect into the front hall and the only light working in the kitchen is in the fridge. It’s been this way for months.

I’m nearly 30 years old. When do I become an adult?

Update: Liz has an adult home. She even has the glass of wine to prove it.