I just don’t feel it.
My desk at home is disorganized, what with being covered in six journals and twenty four writing utensils, in different colors and sizes.
I need things around me I can touch while I’m thinking: my favorite puppets, my plush moogle, a small rubber ducky.
I also keep a plush purple octopus near my keyboard; sometimes, when I write, I wear it as a hat.
“Adulthood?” What does that even mean?
My desk at work isn’t any better.
Beneath a Harry Potter poster, I’ve placed a Greedo bobble head, a plush Koopa Troopa, and an unsolvable Rubik’s cube (it’s got to be defective).
In the top left drawer, I keep my marbles (don’t want to lose those).
I also keep a plush blue dragon near my keyboard; sometimes, when I edit the library website, I wear it as a hat.
I wake up every morning in a house that I allegedly own still grumbling about getting out of bed. “Why does morning have to come every day?” I cry.
After thirty freaking years.
My Netflix Instant Queue looks like it was programmed by a twelve-year-old: Doctor Who, Phineas and Ferb, several documentaries about dinosaurs, and seven different anime series.
I recently had a riveting discussion about Transformers. With a five-year-old. “Riveting” isn't an exaggeration.
The last time I tried to watch a mature, intelligent movie, I fell asleep in the middle.
I watched some TED talks this week, but they were all about sex so they don't count.
I exhibit all the usual signs of being a grown and real person.
I pay bills. Really – I’ve seen them! They’re in my name and everything.
I’ve shopped for cars, and furniture, even my own clothes!
When I buy groceries, most of them are actually edible.
Contents of my purse: sunglasses, lotion, chapstick, Kleenex, two reusable grocery bags, empty granola bar wrapper (formerly known as “emergency granola bar”), notebook, five pens, lucky rock, voodoo doll, one pin. I try to be prepared.
But I haven’t got it figured out yet. I’m seriously just fumbling along here in a cosmic game of catch-up. Everyone else looks like they know something I don’t.
I feel like I’m getting left behind.
Can I confess some things to you?
Scariest thing in the world: the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who.
Scariest realistic thing in the world: the crabs at the beach that come out at night.
Scariest existential thing in the world: what if I was meant to be a marine biologist rather than a librarian?
Scariest nightmare I’ve had recently: Weeping Angel Crabs.
I’m fully aware these fears are irrational. They’re still scary as hell.
I just can’t get over the feeling that it’s not real, you know? Someday, somebody is going to call shenanigans.
“Hang on a tick!” they’ll say. “Who let you out on your own?”
They’re going to demand my Adult Card and I won’t have it.
I DON’T HAVE ONE.
I dance in the shower.
I sing in the car.
I talk to my cats as though we’re actually having a conversation.
I’ve spent more time planning my survival in the event of a zombie apocalypse than I’ve spent planning my own retirement.
I lie awake at night wondering things.
I wonder about religion because no matter how Zen I try to be I still want to slap people almost daily.
I wonder about politics because other people really seem to care about politics and I just don’t care.
Should I care? Am I supposed to care?
I wonder what I’m doing.
I wonder what it’s all for.
But, mostly, I wonder: who’s with me?