let's get the seven lines. (bookshop) wrote,
let's get the seven lines.

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Horrible No-Good Awful Truths About Becoming A Grownup (or, Change 2009: the unicornless edition)

so cathy said to me, "GUESS WHO IS ALL OH I HAVE WORK I AM A BUSY WORKING ADULT NOW. ;_; the answer is you."

I have turned into one of those fandomers who stops fandoming because they go off into their real lives and don't return. I HATE THOSE PEOPLE.

Things They Don't Tell You About Becoming A Responsible Adult:
- that you don't even have time to notice it hitting because you're too busy running around panicking
- that responsibility is basically just another word for commitment, only you commit to things you don't really like, like day jobs and bill-paying and doctor appointments.
- that the number one reason people (single, unattached people like me; I can't speak for the other race of citizen, the married/family-having class, which is another species altogether as far as I am concerned) take on more responsibility is because it pays better, regardless of how they feel about it at the end of the day
- that having a small, boring life consists of small reliefs, like having a day off wherein you are overjoyed because, at last! finally! you have time to.... clean your apartment and do laundry... or coming back to the office to find you only have 19 missed calls but only 1 new message, and feeling a twinge of actual joy, before the miserable realization that *THIS* is the kind of thing that perks you up these days sets in and it's downhill from there.
- that it means you start drinking coffee even if you hate coffee because otherwise you would literally go numb from boredom and inertia
- that whenever you start to think too much about your newfound set of priorities and why exactly they are your priorities, you just start thinking about all the things you have to do, and how you need money in order to do them, and the new list of things you have to do isn't, like, BE ON BROADWAY BY THE TIME I'M 30 40 or HELP ACHIEVE PEACE IN THE MIDDLE EAST, but, like, GET DRESS ALTERED BEFORE NEXT CONCERT, HAVE SNOW TIRES ROTATED, DRAFT PROPOSAL TIMELINE FOR CLIENT, with, like, "gay rights" scribbled in the margins of your brain as an excercise in "when you have time" which is never, and oh my god i think pieces of my soul died just writing this sentence.

I keep wondering if, at the end of this new road that stretches endlessly before you of making sure things get done and seeing that dishes get washed and clients get return calls and plants get watered and rehearsals get attended, there will be some sort of giant flashing neon light that tells you what you've won. Or will you just hit the "dead end" sign and keep on going like Thelma and Louise?

The thing about this is that I have a huge chip on my shoulder about "adulthood" because I SUCK AT IT. I REALLY DO and I am tired of pretending otherwise. There's a part of me that would really like to turn into this person who busily jets back and forth between work and home, stilettos clacking, stopping at starbucks along the way in, the service station or the grocery or tonight's meal on the way out, updating about the christmas gifts she wrapped in january and the flowers she's growing on her balcony and oh, the zen living associated with having a quiet cup of coffee in a fresh cool sitting room, surrounded by crisp white linen, scented candles, and copies of Victoria while watching a Nora Ephron film, or a Jane Austen adaptation, or a Nora Ephron Jane Austen adaptation, as I wait for my oh-so-charming friends to visit me bearing gifts of wine and scrabble, which we will play while sitting on cozy rugs and beautiful pillows, as we chat about the meaning of life and about growing up, and what it means to become an adult.

But I am not and will never be that person. I have fits of cleanliness and fashion where suddenly my apartment is beautiful and I instantly want everyone I know to visit so that I can entertain them, because hey I have wine and champagne and an apartment with framed pictures like a real adult and hey, there's my unglamorous office building in my unglamorous real adult job, and look at me entertaining my friends with my real adult social life!

Those moments are flukes, and I secretly resent them, because a) they're flukes and b) they're not real. THEY AREN'T REAL. I AM SICK OF STRIVING FOR THIS STUPIDLY ORGANIZED VERSION OF A LIFE I WILL NEVER ACTUALLY ACHIEVE. Why can't I just be, you know, okay with being a disorganized irresponsible undependable slob? WHY CAN'T THAT BE A PERFECTLY HEALTHY WAY OF LIFE? :(

- getting up early, getting out of bed after i do, getting from the bed to the bathroom and back without stopping to check email for half an hour each way, not missing the ferry, not getting stuck in tunnel traffic when i'm already running late, and, obviously, getting to work on time
- taking short showers, or in general, showers that don't involve me staring at the wall for twenty minutes thinking about things like whether mozart and salieri could actually have had a future together given mozart's frippery and salieri's unfathomable jealousy before suddenly realizing that the water's going cold and the shampoo in my hair is starting to crackle
- washing dishes, not letting dishes pile up in sink, not mysteriously losing forks, not deciding to just buy plastic plates and cutlery instead just to have less things to wash, not feeling guilty about throwing away plastic dishes and letting them pile up in the sink with all the rest, all except for the plastic forks which are of course mysteriously missing
- recycling, because not only do we not have a city-wide recycling program in this town, the nearest recycling center is three miles away, which is not that far until it comes to the job of actually boxing up the recycling and transporting it, and then it might as well be 50 miles away by ox cart.
- doing laundry, of any kind, for any reason. and dry cleaning? ahahahahaha no.
- hanging up clothes. please, that is what the floor is for. isn't it?
- wearing pantyhose or tights and/or not getting a noticeable run in them within the first ten minutes when i do
- wearing jewelry
- wearing high heels of any variety, oh my god please don't make me, WHY CAN'T WOMEN JUST WEAR NORMAL SHOES :(
- wearing clothes that don't make me look like a frumpy schoolteacher, because even if they look perfectly well-designed on the rack, or even when worn in the store, by the time they have sat in my closet for a day, they will magically have become odd-fitting and garish and possibly morph into knit. D:
- paying attention during conferences, or really paying attention during anything remotely work related, because apparently i have an attention span roughly equivalent to the lifespan of THIS GASTROTRICH.
- cooking things.
- surviving at my job only on the basis of sheer charm, bullshitting, and the ability to quickly switch over to a work-related tab when the boss walks by.
- not being cripplingly, homicidally jealous of people who manage to have creative careers they love, or to write meaningful and wildly original fiction, while i'm off resentfully flailing over ALL THESE OTHER THINGS I DON'T WANT TO DO, DON'T DO WELL, AND DON'T HAVE TIME TO DO ANYWAY.


My boss has gotten in the habit of telling me to "calm down" and "relax" and "breathe" and "stay focused." And I am always like, wtf i am calm? i am focused? I AM JUST A SPAZZ NATURALLY, CAN'T YOU TELL BY THE ALLCAPS IN MY VOICE?

but. it dawns on me that possibly all the spazzing is a result of always feeling harried and guilty, constantly, about all the things i have to do, none of which i want to do, all of which i am hilariously BAD AT, when what i really want to be doing is writing fanfic and/or impassioned speeches about gay rights, and/or singing american art songs or jazz or j-pop, and/or doing anything other than being responsible, being an adult, being organized and getting my shit together, being a fake, healthy, organized person with a fake, healthy, oprah-ish little life, on a straight sterile road going nowhere, except maybe away from the person I always thought i'd be.
Tags: 2009, life, me

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