Adulting is a funny thing. No one really wants to do it, but we must. You first notice it when you get excited about buying a crockpot and the prospect of proper meals planned out before you even go to work. Or when you slip into freshly washed sheets and you know that you did that. Or when you you spend all your frigging money on electricity and groceries and council tax and quietly sob while you’re sure everyone else is out on the town having a grand old time.
All that comes with a strange feeling of pride though. You’re adulting like a pro. The other side of adulting is the one no one ever tells you about. The one with no satisfying feeling of achievement to make up for the sheer horror it entails. The one that does nothing but prove to you how dramatically your life has changed for the worse since you started trying to make it on your own. Stuff like this:
I lived in a reasonably cold country in 2006. While we had a few beach days, most of my bikini time was made up of prancing around my bedroom, checking if last year’s bikini still fit and if I needed to upgrade to a new style this year. Of course I did. I had all that disposable income weighing me down. What else was I going to do with it? Pay my parents rent? Puh-lease.
Shoot forward ten years and the only time I’m will realistically wear a bikini is to clean the bathroom. You know, when it gets a bit too grim to do in regular clothing? You need the shower head in one hand, the bleach bottle in the other and a scouring pad under each knee? I mean, I could probably have just done it naked but that’s a bit too “desperate housewives” for my liking. I have to leave something fun to do in my forties.
Yes, candles. You go on Pinterest or Instagram or flip on the TV and you see proper adults adulting with candles all over the place. They want to be sexy, they light candles. They want to relax, they light candles. They want the mystic scent of vanilla wafting through the house, they light candles. They want to create a spooky atmosphere so they can crank out the ouija board and speak to their dead relatives about putting a curse on the fox who insists on fucking outside their bedroom window at 4am every night? They light candles.
That’s everyone else. I can’t light a fucking candle to save myself. I mean, I could light it. But I would burn the house down. London flats are small and comprised entirely of things that are extremely flammable. I need all that flammable paperwork to get through my daily adulting. Where the fuck is everyone positioning their candles so that they don’t spend every candlelit moment terrified of a fiery death? HOW ARE YOU GUYS DOING THIS? Don’t you have stuff? Isn’t your house covered entirely in paper? How is this just me? I can’t adult this way.
We probably all learned about wine in our early adulthood. We drank it. We drank some more. We spent the night on the bathroom floor being reminded of all the things we ate hours earlier.
As we aged we got a little classier with our wine. We opted for the merlot. We managed to keep the merlot down at least until morning. We started buying more classy, full bodied wine and decanting it.
Wait, what the fuck? No. Who actually as time for this shit? Every time I attend a dinner party and a decanted wine shows up I’m flabbergasted. How much time does this person have? What other necessary adult tasks has this person neglected in order to decant this wine for us? Will the lights suddenly go off mid sip because they’ve forgotten to pay the power bill? If so, thank fuck we’re surrounded by all these candles.
Colouring your nails with glitter, sparkle and bright shades is usually one of the first bits of makeup you get into as a child, while transitioning to woman. Except that you still have the patience of a child, so you paint your nails, do stuff, inadvertently touch your nails and end up with a lumpy chipped mess.
By the time you are an adult you can afford manicures. You can schedule these in, fit them around the rest of your life, or simply do it yourself at home, on a whim and sit quietly waiting for the suitably subtle shade to dry.
Nope. Not me. I like to paint my nails 30 seconds before doing something digitally taxing. I need my fingers for building sandcastles and pulling out staples and poking my husband in the ear when he’s feeling angsty.
My nails look exactly the same as they did when I was eleven, but for more adult reasons. If you have time to wait for polish to dry you probably haven’t paid your power bill, so soon enough you won’t be able to see your perfectly painted talons anyway.
How much time did I spend kneeling ten years ago? However much I needed. Whatever amount of time I needed to spend kneeling to accomplish whatever task I was kneeling for, that’s how long I knelt. Without a second thought.
These days I kneel for about 0.25 seconds. That’s how long it takes for me to remember that my knees are now on strike from any future kneeling endeavours. Agony.
Kneeling like an adult means taking 3 minutes to collect every cushion or piece of padding in the house and giving serious thought to any other positions that your task could be performed in.
Headstands are preferable to kneeling. Crouching is preferable to kneeling. Impaling yourself on a large spike made of unpaid power bills is, once again, preferable to kneeling.
And that’s the sad truth of being an adult. I would advise you all not to grow up, but your only other option is death. I hear that entails dealing with a ridiculous amount of fox sex, so maybe the kneeling isn’t so bad after all.