As I’m now in my 30s and firmly entrenched in adulthood, I’m finding it harder and harder to actually behave the way I’m supposed to i.e. like an adult. Don’t be mistaken, I’m not referring to going out to various clubs with “my crew” and punishing my liver every night. I was over that nonsense when I was the “proper” age for it, I’m referring to the simple act of maturing. Adulthood is that monster under your bed you were scared of as a kid, and your only defense was pulling the sheets up over your head, only now the “sheets” are–well, still sheets, as staying in bed all day is amazing and the threat of eviction isn’t that intimidating.
Naturally, as you age your tastebuds are supposed to mature as well. The desire to eat cookies for breakfast, or having Taco Bell every other meal, should disappear when you start noticing hair where the once wasn’t any. You should be able to eat vegetables without having to hold your nose, or be bribed with the promise of ice cream if you finish them “like a big boy,” not taking into account that the longer you wait, the colder those disgusting plants become.
Not me. I have proudly admitted to eating half a cheesecake for breakfast, then the other half for lunch all because I wanted to. I’ve eaten pizza for all three meals of the day, multiple days in a row, without the least bit of shame. When I do find myself having to dine like an adult, I’ve adopted the mantra of only eating things that once had a face, with the exception of potatoes, meat’s BFF. I’ve not willingly eaten a green vegetable since I was 17, and I should probably be ashamed of that, and a little scared, but noooope. I’m probably risking my health by eating so poorly, but if I check out early, dammit I’m going out full and satisfied. Having the mature and dignified palate of a 7 year old ensures I’ll be dining on nothing but chicken nuggets and peanut butter cups until I clock out.
Entertainment is another issue. As I’m sure you’ve been able to tell by now, I am not an avid reader. I get bored halfway through reading the microwave instructions on a box of hot pockets. “Remove from plastic wrapper, place….ugh…screw it, I’ll wing it…” When the Scholastic book fair rolled through town, while other kids were buying Where the Red Fern Grows and Indian in the Cupboard I was stocking up on Calvin & Hobbes and Farside books.
Television? Sure, I watch it, but A&E, Bravo, and all those other hoity-toity channels are blown right by as I channel surf. I’ve had friends rave to me about how great Downtown Abbey* is–unfortunately, as they start running off those bullet-points as to why, my brain decides at that moment to abandon ship, leaving me as a drooling, babbling mess. Instead of trying to justify my ignorance to “grown up” matters displayed in print or on film, I’ll let Homer Simpson’s wise words speak for me: “Just because I don’t care doesn’t mean I don’t understand.”
When most people accept becoming an adult, they feel they have to become their parents. They get into this rut of work, chores, evening news, food, bed, repeat. Oh sure, they may spice it up a bit by dining out, or catching some foreign film, subtitles and all, at some po’dunk theater that hasn’t been renovated since before segregation laws were abolished. Where does it say that in order to enjoy legitimate theater you have to give up throwing wadded up paper at somebody’s head? If I could find a park with equipment tall enough, I’d hang from the monkey bars for half the day, and spend the other half attempting to reach orbit using the swingset. Hell, the main reason I want to own a home is so I could put a ball pit in my basement. I refuse to pretend things I enjoyed in my youth are no longer enjoyable just because I reached some predefined age where I’m not “supposed” to like it.
Nuts to that.
*Downton Alley?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5o_U8–_ee0