So, after an interesting weekend, along with a thorough reading of Hyperbole and a Half, I’ve come to the sad conclusion that I’m not really an adult. I’m not entirely sure if I should append that sentence with the word “yet” or if this is just a state of being that will continue until old age/death.*
Anyway, Roommate and I argued throughout the day on Sunday about which constitutes a greater level of non-adulthood:
Option 1: My Responsibility Faux Pas, where I attempted to make a baked potato, forgot about it, finally remembered to turn the oven off two hours later, forgot about it again, then found the potato sitting cold and shrivelled in the oven on Sunday.
Option 2: Roommate’s Culinary Faux Pas, where she proudly proclaimed she was making us a salad on Friday, then presented me a bowl of lettuce (she quickly added some tomatoes following my mockery), then left the bowl of lettuce on the counter all weekend.
Taken as independent developments, neither are that bad. However, when seen in the elaborate context of our home, the non-adulthood is all the more apparent.
We rent a basement suite in East Vancouver. Our landlord is selling the place, so we had to do a manic clean-up on Saturday for the realtor to come over and take photos. Once the clutter was removed, the dust bunnies had no where to hide. They sat there in all their grey, matted glory. Shameless, really.
Knowing that someone is going to be coming into your home to take photos suddenly makes you incredibly self-conscious. They are going to be judging me. I think that was when the existential panic sank in.
They will see our walls, where the most adult thing is a framed picture of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Everthing else is posters of Harry Potter, Hitchhiker’s Guide, and Star Trek. The classiest thing we have a painted picture of Fidel Castro, which Roommate apologized to the landlord for as being “politically inflammatory.” (At least non-adulthood comes with a decent vocabulary… but then again, so did Bill & Ted.)
I say nothing of the bulletin board, which has devolved into scribbled quotations from pop culture, the rules for Rock/Paper/Scissors/Lizard/Spock, and pictures of Jon Hamm. Hmmm, Jon Hamm.
As I sit here thinking about it, I think perhaps this is normal. There’s such a grey line between childhood and adulthood these days, and I don’t mind. I like my geeky posters. I like my responsibility faux pas. It’s not boring.
I just realized that I’m wearing underwear with a cartoon character on it.
The debate continues.
*a gross indicator of a) the ever-increasing infantialisation of my generation, or b) the fact that the word “adult” was over-rated to begin with.