St. Simons Island, GA
"I have a mild allergy to adulthood" I heard someone say on the bus the other morning. I didn't quite understand the context in which this was being referred. I did however, keep that statement in my back pocket. It spoke to me. But it wasn't until this past weekend that I realized just how much.
Deadlines? Chores? Taxes? Wrinkles? Schedules? These things give me existential hives.
And yet. I tolerate adulthood because I must. Because though I've definitely whined like a toddler, I am an adult. Because at thirty-five, I am a big girl. I have no choice but to act like one.
Why the allergy you say? I'm not entirely sure. It's complicated, I suppose. And the answers may be cop-outs, but they are mine and I hold them dear. I think there are many reasons why I occasionally have a hard time with this growing up business. One of them?
Wildness
We adults - and particularly we perfect parents - are not encouraged to be wild. We are implored to be prudent, responsible and organized. We are supposed to make lists and plans and beds. We are expected to live within our boundaries. We are supposed to color inside the lines. To be civilized and to use our inside-voices all the time. We are supposed to be healthy and rested and drink lots of water.
We are expected to be good boys and girls.
But here's the thing. Sometimes I don't want to be a good girl. Sometimes I want to go out and drink wine (or margaritas) and dance and be young again. Sometimes I want to stay up past my bedtime and swim in deafening music. Sometimes I want to scribble outside the lines and celebrate. Sometimes I want to break the rules.
Sometimes I want to be wild
It was a wild weekend.
And I’m tired. So tired. But I can’t stop smiling. Literally. Can't stop.
It all started with an invitation. Inviting a reunion of sorts. 15+ college friends conjugating to witness wedding vows. The anticipation was immutable.
Friday night? We settled into old habits quite effortlessly. Laughing and teasing. Beer and beer pong and quarters. More laughing. You get the picture. It was a late night and we had a lot of drinking, I mean catching up to do. But Saturday night? It was nuts. For me at least. I got dressed up. (Roar.) I even wore heels. I sipped wine with good friends while making new friends. I played more drinking games. I danced. And I laughed ceaselessly.
My cheeks hurt for hours. It was wild.
Sunday was a bit tamer. A bit. I held court in the kitchen for the first half of the day. Monitoring and offering various foods and beverages to all of the football watching couch-potatoes. But I was happy. I can't explain it. Maybe it was because I was just an adult that weekend. Just me. Not mommy or home organizer. With no expectations. No hard pressed rules or agendas. Later that evening we witnessed a beach wedding with a beautiful couple. And once again, the festivities began. Dancing. Cocktails. Drinking games.
And Monday? For the first half of the day, I was a shell of a person. I was a bit melancholy and my sentences had holes. But I stuffed them with husband snuggles and a good open-mouth airplane nap.
And Tuesday morning? I was beyond shredded with exhaustion. Moving slowly. But quaking with awareness. That life is good. That I am where I should be. That this adulthood thing? It’s actually not half bad. I sit here, sipping a 140 degree cappuccino. Still smiling.
As I write this, I realize that it is okay to go back, to regress, to get wild once in a while. If only to remember. If only to realize that this place, this here and now, this tame territory, is quite lovely.
So. I sit here. A person. A parent. An adult. A wild thing.
Cheers to your inner wild thing!
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