The Making of an Adult

I am a Gen Xer. We are the “Listen, we didn’t have _____ growing up, and we turned out just fine.” generation. Except we didn’t. Not really. We are the unsupervised, never-restrained, running-wild-in-the-streets kids who are now out in the adulting world, some of us even had kids. … some even on purpose!

We accepted adulthood, but we didn’t want it. We want our carefree, no rules, home until the street lights come on freedoms. We like our tattoos, our legalized MaryJane, and our side parts and non-skinny jeans.

I have always held fun and laughter over responsibility and … well, responsibility. I don’t like commitments, I don’t like being in charge of anything but myself and my kids. Everything else can figure itself out. Also, I work with kids, so this has always helped me maintain a chill and level-headed countenance. I have never wanted to “adult” and in fact do not get along with “Olympic adults”. I have made it to (almost) 47 with a fantastic sense of humor and a usually optimistic outlook.

Not today, folks. You want to know when you finally feel like an adult?! When the hits from the universe just don’t stop. It’s the wearing down of the fun outlook and the absolute giving in to the stress. Life truly wears you down into an adult over time. For some, this happens at 18, for others 65, for me it looks like my magic number will be 47.

I think the conspiracy begins at 40. We don’t have to pay much attention to our bodies before then. In your 20’s the most women have to contend with is the initiation by HPV into “adulthood”. You have your check ups and your check ins, but truthfully, you are still out drinking with friends until the bars shut down and showing up for work the next day, on time even! If we got anything from our parents, it’s that unhealthy no-matter-what-i’m-showing-up-to-work attitude. We eat what we want, because we can only afford ramen and hot dogs. The vodka/tequila lining of our stomachs helps us break down the food better.

Laundry was done at a laundromat because we couldn’t afford the places with the in-unit machines. Our immune systems were METAL! We didn’t have the luxury of chicken pox vaccinations and flu shots. We got our immunity from the laundromat and seedy clubs. Our bodies don’t start dictating our decisions until 40. That’s when – if you’ve had kids – your bladder starts checking out. The bladder starts understanding sick days and non elasticity. Kiss the trampoline park goodbye, moms. By 40 our bodies start attacking themselves. An early diet of carbs, fast food, and fruity pebbles is a recipe for revolt. We start realizing that we have auto-immune disorders and diseases. That’s shit that you didn’t even put in the effort to go out and contract. Your body just says, “Oh yea?? Peanut butter and white bread? No ma’am. You are now … ALLERGIC! No gluten for you! No peanuts for you!”

In addition to your body trying to attack you, let’s not forget the reality that it completely tries to kill you in your sleep. That’s right, sleep apnea. Turns out we can get so over the whole adulting thing that our one sanctuary – our dreams – are our body’s way of actually trying to check us out! So now you get to sleep with oxygen being forced into your face in an attempt to keep you alive until your brain checks back in long enough to carry you to your keurig.

And you take all that on. You accept it. You could choke down some gluten-free bread with the aftertaste of sawdust. No problem. Hey, nutella is peanut-free. That’ll work. Then your children become teenagers and if you didn’t have issues with them in elementary school, kuddos!! I hope you enjoyed that vacation because now it’s schedules and hormones. Sports and dress codes. Social media and sexuality. .. and no comfort at the end of the day of regular white bread peanut butter toast.

So you take your auto immune diseased ass to the games and the celebrations and the Pride festivals. You are learning all new vocabulary and social etiquette. All while holding down your job, working with people who are now an entire generation younger than you, who are in charge of middle school monsters.

Yet you STILL manage to keep your “fun/chill vibe”. Then you start to hear words like “peri menopause” and “colonoscopy”. You get to deal with a doctor that has more than one credential after their PHD. You get gastroenterologists and naturopathic doctors and dareisay Chiropractors. These, of course, are added to the full roster of therapists. Yes, we are the therapized generation and you are welcome for that, by the way. We are the trauma-breakers. The ones who decided that kids needed parental supervision. Admittedly, some went the extra mile with a helicopter, but we saw our kids and listened to them. Some of us even learned how to apologize to our kids and listen to what they have to say.

But still! Through these experiences I personally still don’t really feel like an “Adult”. I feel like someone who handles responsibilities, but will drain my checking account to go to Disneyland, or just Target for an afternoon if I feel retail therapy or fun is in order to make it to the next adulting obstacle course. (which typically involves a lot of actual voice-to-voice phone calls)

So, my friends, I feel like the making of an adult isn’t so much the creation as much as the wearing down of our outer badass, armored-in-fun, comfortable, tattooed shells until we are just too tired to fight for our laughter anymore. That’s when the true Karens are born. Things become more black and white because we do not have the energy for the gray areas anymore. It seems easier to live without so many options. A and B are what I have the patience and attention span for now. Not A through D.

For myself, I have endured a summer of pain and discomfort in my unmentionable nether regions. The regions that I never had to think about before now. I never had to pay attention to fiber or what kind of toilet paper I wipe with. I never knew the pain of colonoscopy prep. Now I not only understand the prep, the three plus months of pain in areas I thought were pretty self-sufficient. I now have the frustration of an “I don’t see anything wrong” diagnosis that I have to go track down. And men, you don’t want to hear this, but women will understand that this doctor, despite my greatest efforts to find the other option, is a man. The pat on the head/hand and the “let’s wait and see if it fixes itself” plan of care does not sit well with me – PUN INTENDED, damnit.

So I had to adult, I had to question and push back and challenge, respectfully, to get another option. I did it, but what was the cost? A little of my sparkle. Dramatic, yes, but still true.

My kids have had to deal with seeing their mom in excruciating pain a lot of their summer. I couldn’t do a whole lot because I can’t predict when this issue will rear it’s ugly rear.

I’m also dealing with the reality of being a parent of teenagers. This shit is crazy! I love them. Our relationships have evolved and changed and we are still close, but this is when they distance themselves. .. as they should. But as a parent, I still feel that. I feel the impending 18th birthday of my oldest. This is his last year of high school and it means lots of deadlines for both of us. – Shit. I still have to schedule his senior pictures. SEE?! It’s constant!

That is all I have the energy to say. I had more but … adult brain. I need to power down for a bit to recharge at 11:34 am . This is your brain on adulting.