I hate becoming an adult.
Childhood is a warm, fuzzy place where it’s never your fault, where there is always an excuse for your mistakes–even if the excuse is that you’re young.
Adulthood means responsibility. Maybe on occasion there is a reason, but there is never an excuse. Adulthood means being self-motivated, with no parents or teachers holding your hand or pushing you along. Adulthood means making choices that are yours and yours alone, and accepting their consequences.
In theory, I have no problem with being an adult. It’s the transition that kills me.
My everyday life is filled with excuses. My supervisor didn’t tell me. I’m new here. I didn’t know. I’m tired. I’m upset.
I’m sick of the excuses, sick to death of trying to explain myself, but when I consider the alternative, I feel like I’m teetering on the brink of a cliff. I could be wrong? I could make mistakes? No way. It’s impossible. If I admit that, I’m no longer the shining star everyone admires, no longer a great achiever, no longer…perfect.
So I take the easy way out. I make an excuse. Obviously, I am still the perfect candidate for the job. I confused your office with another in my interview because your website did not make the distinction clear, not because I was lazy in my research. I can do no wrong–it’s the rest of the world that has a problem, not me.
Five, four, even three years ago, maybe I would still believe that. I might still be convinced of my own infallibility. I almost wish I could have that level of confidence and conviction back. Almost.
Instead, here I am, mature enough to hate myself for making excuses, but not mature enough to stop. Go for a run? I’m too tired. Get more sleep at night? I’m too awake. Pay more attention to friends? I’m too busy. Relax and enjoy life? I’m too bored. Okay, fine, if not now, when? When will you finally do these things?
When I was a kid, the answer was easy. Eventually. I don’t know when, but I know I’ll do it. Now that I’m not a kid?
I want to
You want the truth?
might never come
We’re mortal. How long do we have before “someday” becomes “never”? I keep telling myself that I’m a certain person–or that I will be. I’m not a person who goes jogging regularly, but as soon as I work up the motivation, I will be. I’m not skinny and fit, but as soon as I find the right combination of diet and exercise, I will be. I’m not a person who gives to charity often, but as soon as I have a real job, I will be. How long do I have before I just become lazy, fat, and miserly? Maybe I already am.
Maybe the first step to adulthood is admitting the truth, ditching the excuses, and deciding to change.