Am I a grown up yet?
I had a revelation the other week. It came after I was getting out of the car into a road as an oncoming car was steadily approaching. I decided I had enough time to collect my bags from the seat and get out before it passed. And I did, although not without somehow shutting the door into my head. Then, in a failed bid to appear nonchalant, I strode across the road to the house trying to hitch all manner of tote, carrier and handbags, onto my shoulder while fishing for my house keys. As I continued my frantic fumble, a parental voice chastised from deep in my brain: ‘when are you going to change?’. And before I even had time to think it, a second voice retorted: ‘I’m 35, so probably never.’
I’ve always attempted to hide my scattiness as though it’s something to be ashamed of. I mean, it’s not great in the workplace for example; it doesn’t fit that corporate ideal of someone striding about all spiky heels and symmetrical folds like an exquisite origami swan. I spent much of my 20s as an office temp, approaching recruitment agencies with my CV as though it was my soul; those neat, bullet-pointed lists were a coat hanger for my skinsuit - all nipped and tucked into blouses and skirts along with my fears and insecurities. I acted the part - until those parts of me finally unfurled themselves into a floppy napkin. Little confidence knocks - a missed instruction, a lost file, laddered tights, a spilled drink – created an incompetence monster while perpetuating this skewed idea of ever-shifting adulthood goalposts.
As a child, I had this vision of my older self as a confident woman, striding about and charming people with easy, unbridled banter like some Amy Sherman Palladino creation. And the fact that, in junior school, a friend and I spent breaktime playing what we ironically called ‘The Work Game’, is a testament to how much we’re, or at least I was, influenced by fictional ideals; suburban moms existing as a whirlwind of heels, pencil skirts, flouncy hair, smoothies, school runs and swanky glass offices. Oh and the gym – an expansion pack equivalent for our ergonomic role play of The Simms.
While I know every adult is different, and that that dazzling level of nuclear wholesomeness is not reality (let alone one I’m even sure I want), I still feel like the playground me - wondering when I’m going to grow up and achieve that confident, clean-cut version of myself; my 2004 Renault is always dirty, I still have a Rachel From Friends Haircut, I have no financial assets, I sleep in a single bed, and I STILL don't understand how to work blinds.
But, in part thanks to my recent revelation, I’m realising that denying the raw and imperfect parts of myself doesn’t trim me down to a more refined, perfect whole; it undermines everything that makes me ME. And to realise that is pretty grown up. So ha.
