Adulting

The sound of the animated chatting of women blurred in with the sound of the crickets and the cicadas. I stood in the shade of the garage and stared into the distance as I waited for my mom to finish talking. Impatiently, without looking, I reached up and grabbed her hand, trying to signal my boredom. She squeezed my hand a couple of times as if telling me that she understood. The papery-thin skin of my mom’s palm felt extra wrinkly. Her hand was cold, dry, and bony, much unlike its usual warmth and plush. A rough thumb stroked the back of my hand. I felt distinctly uncomfortable as if something was wrong. 

Slowly, almost dreading what I would see, I looked up at the face of the person whose hand I held. As if on cue, the old lady who held my hand looked down at me. Our eyes met, and we both stared at each other for a beat before I hastily let go of her hand. My eyes darted around and locked on to my mom who was standing just a couple of feet away. I rushed over and grabbed her hand tight. My mom’s real hands were big and warm and enveloped mine in a comforting fashion. 

Embarrassment quickly set in. I peeked at the old lady whose hand I’d accidentally grabbed. She looked back at me, glanced down at her hand, looked up, laughed, and exclaimed loudly to the whole group, “Guess what just happened!”

And so I was forced to endure not only the talking of adults but the talking of adults about me. I still remember the mortification, the awkwardness, the self-consciousness, the humiliation I felt as the adults seemed to chuckle at my expense.

As a kid, I hated being “looked down upon” by adults. I also didn’t understand them -- I didn’t understand how they could sit and talk for hours without getting bored, or why they would chuckle at me and my childish antics (I thought I was very mature for my age). That last one: I absolutely hated being laughed at by anyone or anything, especially adults.

I wanted to be mature, and I wanted to be seen as mature. I wanted to be able to make my own decisions. I wanted adults to treat me as an equal. I wanted respect. When adults were watching, I would diligently work on my worksheet or clean the legos up without being told to do so. I played shop with my siblings where I pretended to pay for different items from my sister’s store as a hard-working adult who earned their own money.

I wanted to be an adult, but I didn’t understand adults. Perhaps the reason I wanted to be an adult was precisely because I didn’t understand them -- I didn’t understand that earning money required hard work, that maturity came from years of experience and hardship, that “adulting” was much more difficult than I’d ever imagined. 

My younger self felt that the wait to become an adult was long and tedious. Now, I couldn’t disagree more -- adulthood feels just a few steps away and approaching too fast, the promise of independence accompanied by a sense of dread. Now, I know just how much I depended (and still depend) on my parents. I didn’t have to pay taxes and bills, or make money, or give myself rides to school. All I had to do was eat provided food, sleep in a provided house, and get in a provided car with a provided driver. All of my needs were provided for, all of this I took for granted.

I’m older now. I understand more of how the world works. I know now that money is earned, that my bed and the roof over it is a luxury (and not a free one, either). My knowledge, my acquired maturity since elementary school, has taken the glamour off from the adult life I used to look up to. 

But even so, I still look forward to becoming an adult, though not with the passion of the past. I look forward not to the idealized adult lifestyle I imagined as a child, but to the independence it will bring despite the additional toil and trouble. 

Perhaps this is the price of freedom. But it is a price I am willing to pay despite knowing the responsibilities I will have to bear.