I’m an adult.
Let me correct that: I’m supposed to be an adult. By definition, and by the age indicated on my license, I’m an adult.
As I sit here just before midnight on a Monday night waiting for my sheets to dry — because maturity has clearly not taught me to put them in before 9pm — I know that just down the hall, my toilet is clogged. I do not own a plunger.
I’m a mother. By my birth date I am a full-fledged adult. I have a career, bills to pay, a mortgage. I buy groceries and plan meals. I chuckle at young girls in clubs that get stupid drunk by 10:30pm and have to be escorted out of the bar. I buy multivitamins, and make sure I have fresh water at all times. I make sure I have foods from all the food groups in my kitchen at all time.
But, I don’t own a plunger.
So, how adult am I, really?
Then I realize I’ll often eat cereal for dinner (after Owen’s gone to bed, of course). Those all-the-food-groups foods are for him, not me. I try my best to watch my nutrition (especially now as I’m trying to once again get myself back into shape and a body I’m happy with), but sometimes I succumb to the Miniwheat charm or perhaps the Tostitos with Boirson cheese spread… but I digress.
I look at my parents and I wonder: When do I get to be as mature as that?
Then I also remember my father still starts food fights to this day, and we laugh like teenagers at camp most weekends when we talk about God knows what topics and drink together on the deck … but that might be a topic for another entry.
Does maturity come when I finally purchase that plunger?
Adulthood means being prepared for anything and everything, right? This non-existent plunger has really made me stop and take stock of everything (plus I need a distraction from wanting to use the toilet I can’t use since Owen is asleep and I can’t exactly rush out to the local hardware store to purchase one at midnight…).
How adult am I really when I only take my garbage out once every few weeks?
Truth be told, I let it pile up on my balcony since I’m three flights of stairs up and I just can’t be bothered to drag it down with me until I’ve got about 5-6 big bags that I then have to trek up and down in one evening of hellish choring that leaves me breathless and cursing my inability to live like a real human being. Same goes for the recycling — but hey, I get brownie points for the actual recycling, right? I mean, it gets done eventually.
I don’t own a plunger.
It seems like such a simple, nondescript item to have in one’s home — yet I don’t. I checked: I have a fire extinguisher. I have a can opener, I even have a melon baller (who the fuck has a melon baller but not a plunger?). I own martini glasses I’ve only ever used ONCE and it was for a desert, not a drink. I own diamond-shaped wine stoppers. I have a miniature hammer. I even have a ton of those little furry sticker feet you put on furniture so they don’t scratch your floor. I have all the medicine and antihistamine you could ever hope to find in my bathroom cabinet, and I even have a cat de-fur thing.
Yet, I don’t own a plunger.
I can’t help feel this is a metaphor for something … unclogging the shit in my life and not being prepared for it at all … but maybe I’m just tired (and not quite the adult I thought I was). And I think my sheets are finally dry.