What It’s Like To Grow Up (as illustrated by my Blackberry)

So, listen, shut up for a minute.
It’s my 6th month-aversary in the “real world.” And I feel I’m in a good place to tell you one unwavering truth I’ve learned about becoming an adult.
Ready?

.

They
make
you…
.
…Get naked.

In which my roommate had to cut my Santacon dress off of me. Adulthood knows no integrity.

Like so; In which my roommate had to cut my Santacon dress off of me. Adulthood knows no integrity.

.

Well, okay, seriously. In every way possible, you are peeled like a banana.
You know how you never realize how cold it is in the morning until you take off your blanket? It’s like that. For the first time, you’re let out of that cocoon of don’t-have-to-think-about-it-yet, of structured deadlines and structured social gatherings and structured communities, of everything you’ve known your whole life essentially being just a little stretch of the arm away. Like that constant 2.5-foot radius you keep between you and your Blackberry, at all times, ever? Just about that far.

.

Hark, ye post red-eye flight straight-to-work sunrise. You're like coming home to the world's ugliest, most affection puppy.

Hark, ye post red-eye flight straight-to-work sunrise. You're like coming home to the world's ugliest, most affectionate puppy.

.
Out in Adult Land, it is truly every man for herself.
You hit the ground running amongst people who’ve been sprinting for miles, people who’ve slowed to a mosey with their arms held out, helmeted douchebros on Segways, hipsters splayed out on the floor taking Instagrams of themselves… No signs, no orientation advisers, no freshmen, no brakes.

.

And very little to no mommies.

.

A mother's love knows no bounds. Especially when she knows your work address.

However, a mother's love knows no bounds. Especially when she knows your work address.

.

You feel really, really stupid.
You get really, really humble.
You’re stripped of all of your false co-ed confidence, flakin’ off of you like rusty paint. You’re a baby again..
.

This is Over-it Baby. She's our office signal for when we've reached that critical editors' point when you "just can't."

Much like this baby. This is Over-it Baby. She's our office signal for when we've reached that critical editors' point when you "just can't."

.

And then, like a baby, first a little and then all at once,
You get to start over.
.

As soul-sucking as it can get, on the best days, it’s incredibly liberating. Feeling the wind in your hair bun beast is never bad. I know, everyday, that these are the days I’m going to look back on and say, “I’m so glad I did that for myself. All by myself. I’m so happy I allowed myself to grow that way.” I’m feeling okay with falling on my face, and I know the difference now between saying that and meaning it. I’m growing a real thick skin, the kind that only comes with facing discomfort, movement, failure, challenge, every day. And while it doesn’t always feel like it, I know I’m adopting the kind of common sense and confidence I would’ve never learned if I hadn’t flown the coop.

.

I’m exhausted, scatterbrained and a baby-bit homesick.
But to tell you the truth, I’ve never been more proud of myself.
And I should tell myself that more often.

.

It's autumn time in my happy place.

It's autumn time in my happy place. The fact that I found a happy place -- I'm proud of that, too.

.

And y’know best part? No one person, not one, skips these ugly years. I’ve asked many an adult specimen. Hell, some people never shake them off.

.
It’s hard, you guys. Harder than we were ever warned. But the big secret is that all of those who are brave enough to face it are knee-deep in it. We’re all overwhelmed. In the “real world,” you can’t hide behind Facebook-fake happiness — everything is not okay.
But we grit our teeth. We go on rooftops. We live for happy hour. And one day, I think we’re gonna miss being this young, messy, stupid and at the core, happy.

.

Turns out successful growing up is not ever growing up: Hence, endless childhood clapping games with some brewskies and some rooftop.

Turns out successful growing up is not ever growing up: Hence, endless childhood clapping games with some brewskies and some rooftop.

.

After all, striking out and attacking the world face-first — it’s the way my mommy did it.
It’s the way a lot of our mommies did it.
And if my story makes my kids half as proud as hers makes me,
Bring on another day.
I’ll be good.

.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s