Adulthood
101
“Because
the terrible thing about becoming an adult is being forced to realize that absolutely
nobody cares about us, we have to deal with everything ourselves now, find out
how the whole world works…We open our eyes in the morning and life is just
waiting to tip a fresh avalanche of ‘Don’t forget!’s and ‘Remember!’s over us.
We don’t have time to think or breathe, we just wake up and start digging
through the heap, because there will be another one dumped on us tomorrow.”
Fredrik
Backman (Anxious People, p.43, Atria Books, 2019)
Fredrik
Backman’s description, some of which is captured above, of adulthood is just
about the best one I’ve ever read. It’s funny and it’s oh, so true. Remember
when you just couldn’t wait to grow up so that people would stop bossing you
around, taking away your privileges for that one little C on your report card,
and punishing you for missing curfew by ten lousy minutes? I remember
stretching my age to include the months and days until my next birthday. “I’m
14 & 2/3’s.” And then you get there—to adulthood—and the only thing in the
whole world you want to do is get back to your hay-days as a carefree child.
Suddenly, you are the “adult in the room.” Much is expected; everyone is taking
notes and keeping count of how many times you screw up. At least, that’s how it
feels.
Here
are some of the things you’re expected to give up when you become an adult—whining,
making excuses, blaming others, preening, flouncing about like a peacock, and
sulking. I mean…it’s really hard! All the superficial and/or suggestive things
you said and did to call attention to yourself as a nubile teenager are now
observed with suspicion if not outright hostility. “Get over yourself!” is the memo
of the day. No one says, “Aw, that’s cute. Aren’t you just the sauciest thing!”
Now you just get served for harassment.
Adulthood
has it perks, though, if you live long enough. For one thing, you learn how to
take care of yourself and others. You figure out how to call a plumber, jump
off a dead battery, ice a cake, and prune shrubbery. You learn, if you’re
lucky, how to laugh at yourself, how to take a little good-natured ribbing, and
give back as good as you got without bitterness. You learn how to lick your own
wounds, how to have compassion for yourself and others who are flawed, because,
well, we’re all flawed. And best of all, you learn that you are pretty darned
okay. Good even. No preening necessary. Just a bare-naked-soul and a big heart will do.
In
the Spirit,
Jane
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