Welcome to Adulthood

Fair-weathered friends

There were a few terms my parents taught me at a very young age (I would say by the age of 6.) Those terms were: “attention seeking behavior” and “fair-weathered friends.” While neither of those terms are necessarily related, they certainly imprinted on my psyche pretty indelibly.

For some reason, in about 5th grade, my group of girl friends — a small group of social outcasts who spent most days in the library at lunch — decided to start calling me a “lesbian.” “Mara’s a lesbian!” they would yell, and I would spend the duration of lunch chasing them around the school. I didn’t really understand the term fully at the time. All I did know was that they would scream “Mara’s a lesbian” and then leave me, alone, in the library. I had never felt self-conscious about lunching in the library previously, but when I found myself lunching in the library ALONE, I started to feel pretty low. So, I would chase them around the school, hoping to catch up with them so that I didn’t have to be the loser-in-the-library. My chasing them, however, would just egg them on. “Ohhhh, she’s following us! She must love us! She’s a lesbian,” they would shriek and giggle, always out-running me.

Yes, kids are cruel. But that is for another entry.

My mom would ask me every day when she picked me up from school how my day was and if I learned anything new. I was always too embarrassed to ask her what my friends meant when they called me a lesbian, and why they made me chase them around the school. I knew that whatever they meant it was something shameful and I couldn’t tell my mom. (For the record, I don’t think a person who is gay is shameful, and neither did/does my mom, but as a young girl in a Catholic school, messages about homosexuality are often pejorative, to say the least.)

So, I would sob, “Mmmy…mmmyy…friends were really meaaannnn to me today.” And my mom would wipe away my tears, draw me in close, hug me, and say, “Mara, those are what we call fair-weathered friends.[*]“

[*]Interestingly, it turned out those girls were NOT fair-weathered friends after all. Most of them are still some of my best friends today. But the term really resonated with me. But I digress…

I remember when my next door neighbors (two boys I had grown up playing with) stopped hanging out with me at the age of about 12, and I said I didn’t care because they were ‘fair-weathered friends’. And when I first felt heart break from a boy I just told myself to move on, get over it, because he was a fair-weathered friend anyway. I remember when my dad left my mom and moved to Cambodia (weird), I said I was fine with it because, apparently my own father was a fair-weathered friend and I didn’t need any more of those. When one of my closest friends from adult-ish life (I probably met her when I was about 20), told me she no longer wanted to be my friend, and gave no reason at all, I wrote her off — a fair-weathered friend if I had ever known one.

I don’t think I really understood everything when I wrote off as fair-weathered friends the school-yard girls, my neighborhood playmates, my first heart break, or my dad. After all, people grow up and grow apart, and as much as I wish I could, I couldn’t have understood the complexities of my parents divorce. And as for the girls on the playground, they probably had no more clue what a “lesbian” was than I did.

But, I am grateful for my mom teaching me this phrase. It was a logical coping mechanism that gave me a way to understand rejection when I couldn’t always explain it (as was the case with the girls at school, or my next door neighbor friends), or when I couldn’t always understand it (my first heartache and my parents divorce.)

Now that I am an adult, this phrase makes more sense to me and bears more relevance. I have a friend or two — ones who I was deeply connected with for years and years– who are just that: fair-weathered. One of my dearest friends from high school (who actually lived with me for a while in college and still lives in California) will never return my phone calls, texts, or emails, no matter how hard I try or how persistent I am. (And this is not the case of just being busy. I have many friends who I only talk to about once a year, but I still feel I am close to them in spirit.) Today, I was thinking about this particular girl, my former bosom-buddy. I felt a profound sadness and loss for her, as if she had died. So, I called her again. Voicemail.

When is enough, enough? When do I give up trying to contact her? Why is it so hard now, when I actually understand my mom’s wisdom, to just write people off as a fair-weathered friend?

Maybe I thought the Fair-Weathered Friend was just a myth that my mom told me to make me feel better. Maybe I thought that you could only be fair-weathered if you were young and immature. Here we are, this girl and I, 28 years old — shouldn’t we be over this fair-weatheredness?

I think the older I get, the more I realize how incredibly valuable good friends are. Of all the people I have met in my life, of all my myriad of friends, only a few are left standing. Those are the ones I know I can always count on. But what happens when one of those core friends becomes fair-weathered? Do you just write them off and let them go as another childhood playmate lost? I don’t think I will ever understand it…But one thing I have learned from my mom’s advice is that, in sunny weather and in stormy weather, I must try my best to be a compassionate, reliable, caring, and enduring friend. I hope I achieve that.

Leave ruminations in the comments, please.

Meghan and Reid: Now This is a Party.

I’m sorry to everyone who has been waiting for my wedding post on Meghan and Reid’s wedding. With all the wedding blog sites out there, I didn’t realize that people were actually interested in my wedding entries on this little-blog-that-could. But, it sure is humbling and nice to get emails from everyone, even if those emails are saying “More wedding! Don’t tease us!” So, thank you so much for giving me a swift kick in the butt, and I know these pictures and this couple’s crazy fun wedding weekend details will not disappoint!

What I love about this wedding is the real love story behind it– with all of the improbabilities that people only see in movies– that is climaxed in union with what looks to be the best party ever! While I love weddings, and I enjoy looking at pretty pictures (who doesn’t love pretty pictures?), what I am interested here at WelcometoAdulthood is the ritual and the reason behind all the pretty dresses and the pretty flowers. I want to hear about the laughter and the tears, not the day-of-wedding planner or the wedding favors given to the guests.

I don’t want to be another “wedding blog.” Nor am I here to impress cyberspace with my super-hipster wedding recaps.

I am here to have a candid discussion about something that is so awesomely inevitable to all of us (even those of us who want to live in Neverland forever…): adulthood. In all of its glory.

I recently attended the wedding of my dear friend, Janelle. She said something in her vows that really resonated with me, and really embodied the vibe I want for wedding entries in my blog. She said to her partner something like this: I promise to love you. And while it may be easy enough to say here, because I am wearing this dress and everything is so beautiful and our family and friends are here, I really want this moment, and all its beauty, to be a reminder. In our darkest hours, when the beauty has faded, I want to remember this moment and my promise to love you, always.

With adulthood comes enormous responsibility – the responsibility to own our lives, to make choices, to form life-long partnerships. Certainly then, getting married cannot be overlooked in the series of small yet incredibly significant moments that make us Adult. So, I will continue to chronicle weddings as a chapter in our collective history. But, I will not dwell on the details: the fancy cupcakes, the pashminas that were passed out at the wedding, the expensive venue, the coordinated flowers. Really, as Janelle’s vows remind us, those things are not important. We have enough pressure to “keep up with the wedding Jones’” already from the plush bridal magazines and websites. Those are the places that you should go to for the aesthetic, for the checklists, for the duties of each of your wedding party, for referrals to fantastic and expensive bakeries.

Here, we will be grounded. And while things will still look pretty, we will be focusing on the ritual, the fun, the love, and what made that wedding really important/memorable/awesome/hysterical and special to the bride, groom, and their guests.

With that, I give you: Meghan and Reid

Meghan and Reid met on spring break in Lake Havasu, California. They instantly connected, but Reid was from Montana and Meghan lived in San Francisco. Their spring break romance ended as quickly as it came, and the two parted ways to go back to reality. This was an improbable romance, at best.

Meghan and Reid kept in touch throughout the spring, and in the summer Meghan did something bold. She moved to Montana. Well, initially she went for just a visit, but ended up staying almost a year in Montana. Some things are just too good to give up on…

After 11 months of living together in Montana, Meghan and Reid both moved back to Meghan’s hometown in California. Reid proposed to Meghan on Valentine’s Day, 2008 with Meghan’s great-great grandmother’s engagement ring.

Here Meghan recounts why the wedding was so special and so F.U.N. (Trust me, you will want your wedding to be this fun, too. This girl’s got the right idea!) :

Many of Reid’s family and friends (being from Minnesota, South Dakota, and Montana) had never been to California. So, we wanted to make the wedding really special, not only for us, but for them as well. Our wedding was kind of like a week-long celebration. Most all our out-of- town friends and family came into town the weekend before the wedding, and the festivities started early.

The reception officially ended at around 11p.m., but it didn’t end there for most of us. We headed out with all of our friends, still in our wedding clothes, to San Francisco and went to our favorite old college dive bar, Abbey Tavern. It was a great time! People were cheering for us and buying us shots! After we closed the bar down, Reid and I spent our wedding night at the Clift Hotel. It was really nice, except for the $11 dollar bottle of water that was in our room. But, after the night I had had, I was so thirsty I just had to buy it. And it was all worth it.

I love it! I love the fact that you had a whole week of wedding festivities to bond with visiting friends and family. Barbeques, wine tasting, a Giants game, and a wedding! Now that is a way to celebrate! And I love, love, love the visual picture of you in your “magical” wedding dress, rocking out alone on the dance floor!

It seems fitting that an improbable romance that turns into a long-lasting love affair should be marked with such pomp and circumstance. Somehow, the fates brought you and Reid together, and that calls for a party! I wish you a lifetime more of love and laughter. Thanks for sharing, Meghan!

And We’re Back: Good Friends and 24 Hour Taco

The great thing about adulthood is making great friends who inspire you (particularly in times of woe) to pull yourself up from your bootstraps and keep on livin’.

As is the case with my dear friend Morgan and this very blog. “Let’s resurrect your blog!” she wrote to me in an email yesterday. Attached to the email was this guest blog post, and a bunch of pictures. Now that is a friend.

So, this morning, for the first time in many days, I logged in to my blog and I felt happy. I did not feel too overwhelmed by my recent heaviness of adulthood, even though nothing had really changed — my grandma was still sick, my life was still stressful, my family’s grocery store had still gone under. But now, finally, I had someone who offered to carry a bit of a load that is very important to me (my blog!) And now, finally, I accepted the help.

A few words of introduction to Morgan’s fabulous post…

One thing that I love about Morgan’s entry is that it forces the reader to really work to contextualize place and time. Her descriptions of a local taco stand (we in Southern California know there is one on every corner, a favorite in every neighborhood) and the vast Texas landscape are incredibly rich.

Morgan’s fiance, Brant, is in the Navy and is currently deployed (as we will find out from her post). For Morgan, half a world away, the comfort of Brant’s company (and the memory of one of their happiest times) is recalled again and again with a visit to her local taco shop. There is a kind of quiet tone to this entry, and all the details count to expertly lay out a real feeling of love, happiness, longing, and comfort.

24 Hour Taco
By Morgan Leahy

At 5:58 am, my alarm clock radio whines on and I get an earful of traffic, and an update on the border waits at Calexico and San Ysidro. I wrestle with the sheets and get out of bed to another perfect morning in San Diego.

I spend the day at work, quietly typing at my computer and performing many and varied administrative tasks of great and small importance. At 11:00 I can’t contain a grin as my cell phone starts to vibrate. I carry it out to the parking lot where I talk privately for the fastest half hour of my day. I hear about Brant’s day in Kuwait, how hot it is, how well his dive went, what he had for dinner. Normal things make the distance between us feel less apparent. I hear about a funny practical joke involving a Red Sox fan and a Yankees license plate holder. I tell him how I had trouble sleeping, and I return to the office to finish my day.

After work, I have to feed a friend’s fish. It is as uneventful as you would think and I lock up her house and start to walk home just before dark. The sun sinks slowly into the Pacific behind me, and I walk up the hill towards home.

I cross three blocks and see Roberto’s 24 hour Taco Shop across the street, my favorite guilty pleasure since moving here a year ago. It’s too bad I won’t be able to tell Brant about this. When he left for his deployment four months ago, he made me promise that I would not, under any circumstance, tell him about any stop at Roberto’s. Before the road West, I hadn’t known the least thing about Mexican food. I guess it really started a little north of the Rio Grande.

“Thank you,” the man at the convenience store had said when we finished paying for our assorted snacks and walked out into the hot Texas sun on the third afternoon of our drive, in May of last year. We climbed into the car. Somehow he had convinced me to drive, and we sped off fast enough to get pulled over right away, but not fast enough to get a ticket. I cried. He took the wheel. And we tried again.

We drove out of a Texas afternoon, through a Texas evening, and into a Texas night. I said I could see for miles and I thought I was the first person to ever feel that way. We had the only car on the road, and gas stations, not to mention any traces of communities, spread further and further apart. We held hands in the car and stayed about as quiet as we had been the whole trip. We had no plans or expectations of where we would sleep that night, or how far we would drive.

“Gracias,” The cashier at Roberto’s said to me as I gave him a handful of coins, “Hot Sauce?”

“Si, roja por favor.”

“Tienes un novio?”

“Si. You ask me every time”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes. Still do.”

I grab the sweating plastic to-go bag with my heavy burrito inside and turn again towards home. It’s almost dark.

Somewhere in the West Texas desert, we had turned at an exit that had signs for food and gas when it started to feel like we were playing chicken with the gas gauge. Driving up to a stop sign at the first intersection, we looked around and saw nothing, only the hills covered with a darkness so soft I wanted to wrap it around me. Ahead, a gas station sat on a small hill. It was the only light for miles.

We pulled into the parking lot, filled the tank, and walked inside the convenience store. An older man stood behind the main cash register and a young girl stood behind another counter that had hot food for sale. It was late, maybe 3am, so there wasn’t much food left and I didn’t recognize anything in the case. This was perhaps the third time I had eaten Mexican food before then, so I pointed to what turned out to be a chili relleno and hoped I would like it.

Stretching out on the grass near the curb with our dinner, I laughed as I looked at Brant. We had been on the road for three days, and the scenery, the food, and the company filled me with excitement. I felt like we were just starting out, and we were.

I arrive at my gate just as the last bit of sun is dipping below the Ocean. I take a seat on the front porch and eat part of the burrito, still reminiscing about our cross county drive. Then I step inside to email Brant.

And, for all those who have been asking, I will still put up the entry from Meghan’s wedding, as I teased you with about a month ago.

In the mean time, please show our first Guest Blogger some love! What did you take from her entry? What was striking? Do you have a favorite food that transports you somewhere great? For me, it’s hot jamon y queso sandwiches (con huevos). When I studied abroad in Madrid (on a budget so we had to stick with cheap, simple food), my dear roommate would make us these sandwiches for dinner at least 3 times a week. At the time, in our little apartment off of the purple metro line, nothing ever tasted so good…

Thanks Morgan!

We can’t wait to hear more from you!

Coming Up Next: Meghan and Reid’s Northern California Wedding

Who would have thought that in 2007 Meghan would meet the love of her life on a wild spring break in Lake Havasu? THEN, who would have thought that said love of her life would live in Montana (while she lived in California)? Who would have thought that these two star-crossed lovers would end up spending the rest of their lives together?

I can’t wait to show you more pictures from their AMAZING wedding, coming up next. This is one real life fairy tale that you just can’t miss! Stay tuned.

A Mark of Adulthood

Here are a few more pictures of Danna at her second sitting as she is getting some color added.

Here is a really good shot of the detail.

What an awesome tattoo! I can’t wait to post the completed work of art once she goes for her final sitting in two weeks.

The second tattoo I want us to look at is from my friend Michael, an M.D. at Stanford. Next time you visit your doctor, imagine what might be under his/or her clothes. This might be the last image you would picture on the back of your straight-laced doc.

Isn’t that tattoo incredible? I love the detail in the Buddha and the demon, contrasted with the simple, clean lines of the wheel.

So, what can we make of these kinds of “expressions”?

In our search for the elusive adulthood, I think we can view tattoos as a metaphor. Sometimes “adulthood” means breaking out of our suit and ties, our doctor’s coats, our high heel work pumps, and making this beautiful, indelible mark on our own existence — literally.

Perhaps our generation is on to something really important.

We are unafraid of the moment. We embrace the permanence of tattoos, perhaps because we are wiser than we know. For, after all, life is short — and we must savor every moment. We must feel it all, pleasure and pain. And ultimately, we know too, the tattoo is not permanent at all: our body is only a vessel. Our ashes will one day blow away, our body will one day fully decay.

But the life we lived, wasn’t it grand? And maybe the tattoo is just a reminder to live in the moment, to cherish the past, to feel pain, scar, and heal. And when we are old and grey, and our tattoos are wrinkled, faded, or stretched, they will serve to remind us that we were once brave, bold, and uninhibited, and we lived every moment as our last.

What do you think? Do you love or hate tattoos? Do you have any tattoos – why or why not? Can you answer Emily’s mom’s question? Let’s discuss in the comments.

Wordless Wednesday: Three Babies and a Mom

I am instituting a new feature for the blog: Wordless Wednesdays.
Let’s celebrate and commiserate adulthood in a narrative of photo memories.

Still need some inspiration? Our first photo comes to us from my dear friend Jenn. Jenn is mom to an adorable but extremely hyper-active 18 month old, and two precious 8 week old twins.

I give you, My Day: Three Babies and a Mom — proving that a picture truly does say a thousand words.

Here is your challenge, my glorious readers: dig through old photo albums, old computer hard drives, old social networking site profile pictures and tell us a meaninful story in just one photo. Give it a name, or don’t name it at all, and send it along to me at mara@welcometoadulthood.com.

Now looking at My Day, what kinds of things from this narrative speak to you? How amazing is this woman in the image?

To me this narrative reads as a woman who is strong, fecund, resourceful, and resilient. To me, this photo seems to celebrate the power of Mother, and also remind us that motherhood means being present for your children in every way: sacrificing your chin to feed your baby if need be, and sacrificing your sanity to make sure your children are happy, healthy, and loved. This picture, my friends, oozes love in a real, tangible, way. And I know, if I grew up and found a picture just like this of my mom, with me and my brother, I would feel something very powerful. I would think, wow, my mom gave me everything she had, and she was really somethin’ special.

Let’s talk about it! Send me any thoughts in the comments. All you mothers out there, does this inspire you? Or does it remind you how hard it can be sometimes to be a mommy? All you readers with no children, how does this make you feel? Does this scare you? All views are welcome here. Leave your thoughts in the comments.

(Photo courtesy of J.G.J.)

Vows Under the Rotunda

Today I am so excited to feature some pictures on the blog for our first official wedding post!

Elizabeth and Shaik (who live in San Francisco’s NOPA area, those lucky ducks) couldn’t reconcile between having a small, intimate ceremony in the beautiful “Beaux-Arts”-style City Hall Building that they had always admired, or whether to have a large wedding with all the pomp and circumstance. After much thought, Elizabeth and Shaik realized, “Hey, why are we anguishing over this when we can do it all?”

Shaik wanted a traditional wedding in his hometown in Malaysia to celebrate with his 500 close family and friends (he actually has 500 family and friends — that is not an exaggeration!) Elizabeth wanted a classic and elegant wedding in California with her closest family and friends. Travel costs for all family and friends prohibited them from doing one big wedding, so they initially decided on two, big, separate weddings. Through all their planning of the two big weddings they realized something else they wanted: to share their vows of love and partnership in a quiet setting, in the city they adored, surrounded by only a handful of family and friends, Elizabeth wearing a little white dress and her favorite yellow peep-toe pumps, and Shaik wearing his sharpest Navy suit. Why compromise?

On July 3, 2009 they made their first dream come true. They were married in the rotunda of City Hall, under the fifth largest dome in the world.

In case you have never visited the building, here is a picture. It is really stunning!

Here is the couple walking to the City Hall (and there was no fog!)

And in front of the City Hall before the ceremony.

Here is the homemade bouquet that I made for Elizabeth. I wrapped the stems in Elizabeth’s favorite old yellow silky shirt. Though the shirt hasn’t fit for years, Elizabeth couldn’t part with it because she loved the pretty material so much. She knew she would use the material for something special — and did she ever! If you look closely, you might even see the buttons!

Here they are signing the marriage lisence.

The beautiful bride!

I love this sweet candid shot, stealing a glance before the big moment.

On the famous staircase.

And the dip!

So, I guess it is true that for your wedding you really can have your cake and eat it too! Elizabeth + Shaik + a simple, intimate ceremony + an elegant U.S. wedding + a traditional Malaysian destination wedding = total awesomeness. Thank you so much Elizabeth and Shaik for sharing your beautiful and sweet day with us. We can’t wait to see more pictures from your U.S. wedding and your Malaysian wedding!

How did you celebrate your special day? Send me your story and any pictures to be featured on the blog to mara@welcometoadulthood.com

(City Hall building picture credit to Nicholas Shanks.)

‘Tis the Season to be…Wed?

Did I mention so many of my friends are engaged? In fact, another of my dearest friends got engaged last weekend. I am glad I have this blog, because I think this is one of those things that many people can relate to in some way or another. I call it, Rites of Passage In Which You Are Not Included.

I think we get used to achieving rites of passages with our peers. You get your period about the same time as your friends (which is important so you can share some woman-stories and information, not just glean all your information from Judy Blume’s, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.) You go into high school about the same time as your peers, you graduate high school at the same time as your peers, you go off to college, you graduate college, you get a “real” job and all your friends are getting “real” jobs too, and you…get married around the same time?

Maybe that is why I feel left behind. Granted, I am not in any hurry to get married, but I can’t help but feel left behind among the talk of wedding gowns and flower colors.

And then the inevitable question from random people, family members, friends:
“What about you and your boyfriend?”

“What about it?”

“When will you be getting married?”

“Uh, you know. We are just takin’ our time right now and enjoying it.”

Why do I feel like I need to legitimize my relationship status? Probably because I am the one who is left behind in this epic rite of passage. And it is not that I feel left behind in my relationship, but more left behind by my friends. Kinda like if someone had told me when I was 17 that I couldn’t graduate high school for another year or two, and all my friends got to go off to exciting post-high school adventures. Yeah. That is exactly how I feel: like I am sitting in a math class, looking out the window, watching my friends pack for college (yes…it is a reverie: obviously they would not be packing RIGHT in front of my classroom window. And I did graduate high school on time, I might add — with no thanks to my poor math grades.)

I just kind of feel…quiet. Happy for them but quiet inside because I feel my dearest friends will be on to new things. New “married” things. And I will still be quietly here.

What about you guys out there? Do you, or did you, ever feel like this?

The good news about all my friends weddings is that I will be able to start a new topic to file things on our blog: weddings! That means anything wedding you want to share, talk about, etc, send my way! Pictures are especially welcome.

To start off this new “file” in the blog, I am posting a picture of my dear friend, Morgan (also a highly anticipated guest blogger, hopefully!) who is pretty much about the coolest girl around.

Morgan is a cross between a indie fashionista and a hippie, if you can wrap your head around that one. She is a New Jersey girl, transplanted to the beach of San Diego (not too shabby) and is engaged to a handsome fellow named Brant. Brant is in the Navy and is currently deployed in Kuwait. He works for the Navy E.O.D. and basically blows up bombs all day, but more on that later.

Brant proposed to Morgan with this stunning sapphire and diamond ring. The best thing about this ring (aside from that it is beautiful) is that it features conflict-free, ethically sourced, gemstones. Morgan felt strongly about not supporting the proliferation of blood diamonds, and she has always loved sapphires. Here is a picture of the loveliness:

To read more about conflict diamonds, and why it is so important to support purchases of conflict-free gemstones, check out what the U.N. has to say: Conflict Diamonds

And here is an interesting tidbit: A French lady who I used to work with had a wedding ring that was also not a diamond. She told me that diamonds were considered an “American” thing (picture a very thick French accent with a highly pejorative undertone)and in Europe no one really cared for diamonds as they were not as rare as their high prices would lead you to believe (the rareness vs. price is true, not just a cultural bias.) In fact, she even referred to them as “common.”

What do you think? To diamond or not to diamond? Did you know about conflict diamonds and now that you do will you think twice before purchasing a diamond? Lots to talk about today, folks! Sound off in the comments.

(The lovely Gatsby-esque wedding picture is via OnceWed.com, and the others are courtesy of Miss Morgan the Magnificent.)

All Signs Point to Yes.

How do you know when you have reached that ever-elusive “adulthood”? I thought it was when I was 18 years old: adventurous, independent for the first time. Smoking cigarettes on the steps outside my dorm, my parents thousands of miles away, with my newly pierced tongue. “This must be it,” I thought to myself. At 19 years old, my parents got divorced and I was shattered. Was this actually adulthood? Feeling the ache of a guilded and broken childhood every day, and having the courage and the strength to get myself out of bed each morning, go to class, go to my waitressing job, study, smoke cigarettes outside my dorm, and do it again tomorrow without completely unraveling. “This must be it,” I thought to myself.

At 20 years old, I was living back at home with my mother. I made a new “adult” life in my childhood room, removing pictures of my childhood heroes and replacing them with pictures of my friends and I smoking cigarettes outside the dorm. “That must have been adulthood,” I thought as I looked fondly at the pictures. Certainly, I wasn’t necessarily happy back at college, but it reminded me of a time when I felt free, before the divorce, before the bitter realization that even in times of hardship, you have to pick yourself up (and there is no one that will do it for you!) and keep taking care of yourself.

At 21 years old, I knew I had to be there. “THIiiissss must be it, I really just didn’t know it before,” I thought to myself. Now that I am 21, I can drink legally — it has opened my whole life to a new world of legal socialization. Going to bars, meeting boys at bars, this has to be it.

At 26 years old, I graduated college. After an extended stint at community college, I finally transferred to a small, private university and graduated as the oldest person in my class (I thought so at least.) I got a job right after college, and a glamorous one at that. I got to travel to New York frequently, I got to attend fancy parties. I remember getting off the plane at JFK airport on my first official business trip. I had intended to take a taxi into the city, but a nice gentleman at the taxi queue quickly assured me that he would take me into the city for “a good price” in his town car. I sat comforably in the dark leather seats and as I watched the city lights descend upon me, I thought, “Ah ha! So THIS is it! I have finally made it. And boy, does it feel good to be here.” Then the driver told me I owed him $115. After a short argument in which the man told me he would call the police if I didn’t “pay up”, I tearily handed him the money. As I watched him speed away I thought (for I was a little wiser by now and knew there were things I still needed to learn), “Maybe this is not it. Maybe I am not really here yet. But when will I know?”

Now I am 28 years old. I feel like I should be here by now: four of my dearest friends are engaged, another of my dearest friends is well on her way to engagement (they have picked out the ring! Squealll!), I have a job that I wake up for every day (no sleeping through class anymore or skipping out on my waitressing shifts like the old days), I pay bills (a lot of bills!), I live with my boyfriend (who I adore), and my beau and I are currently in the market to buy a house. More terrifyingly, sometimes I see babies and I think for a split-second, “Aww! I want one of those soon…” Then I snap out of it. I’m not there quite yet.

Still, all of these things seem to be rites of passage to adulthood. I think I would feel pretty “adult” if I bought a house with my boyfriend. Obviously my friends feel “adult-enough” to decide to get married. And that new-found affection for children in general? Yeah, I would say that is pretty “adult.” But if I have learned anything from my life in the last 10 years it is that being an “adult” isn’t always what it seems, or what it is cracked up to be. How can we actually be an “adult” if we don’t even know how to handle these rites of passage? I mean, could I really conceptualize birthing a child through my vagina (yes, I said vagina, I think that is part of being an adult?) and then raising the child for the rest of my life? And what about this house that I am going to buy? The economy is in the crapper, what if I can’t keep up with my hefty mortgage payments? And as a long-time renter, can I really imagine putting MOST of my earnings into my mortgage payment? And marriage: I am already in a partnership. Am I less “adult” if I don’t feel like getting married? Certainly, most would say “No. No. To each their own.” But really, getting married has its own ethos; it legitimizes your relationship somehow. For some reason, to be a married couple carries more weight then saying “oh yes, this is my boyfriend.” (That is also why getting married is such an important issue to gay people, and why should they be denied that right? But more on that another time.)

So, dear readers, how do we know we “have made it”? I wish there were sign posts along the way to help us figure it out: “This Way!” or “One Way Only (you’re on the right track)”. Like if you are running a long race and you have a team of people on the sidelines cheering for you, “You are almost there! Just one more little hill!” That really does make the race easier. I would be happy with even a little light-bulb moment “ding! ding! ding! You made it!” Just something tangible that I could savor for a single minute so I could breathe a sigh of relief that I finally got there.

But maybe there is no sign, no moment. Maybe it just sneaks up on you, sits down, and settles in, so subtle and so sure that it lingers with you for days, months, or even years, until suddenly you realize you never needed a sign. You realize that you have been here for a very long time after all, and you are actually doing pretty well for a gal not having any directions. I can imagine this would feel like an incredible sense of completion, pride, strength, and wisdom. I’m still watching and wondering…

Welcome to Adulthood.