There’s a trending term called “adulting” and it makes my skin crawl.
Examples of adulting may include filing taxes, hosting a dinner party, becoming a bridesmaid or watching CBC’s The Fifth Estate .
It’s not the responsibilities associated with adulthood that irk me, it’s the idea that fulfilling a basic daily task like watering a fern, warrants attention.
Possibly worse than this cute new verb, are those bucket lists that attempt to prepare twentysomethings for adulthood. You know…the articles that remind you of all of your shortcomings on the cusp of an impending milestone birthday…
Like the Sanderson Sisters, these soul sucking posts are killing my inner child.
The more they saturate my news feed, the more I feel like Peter Pan — I rarely wear matching socks and the closest thing I have to an RSP is a jar of buttons.
At age 28, here’s why I’ve decided to forgo those fear inducing bucket lists and not let the countdown to my 30th ‘doomsday’ bury me alive.
They lead you to believe life is over after your 20s.
It’s described as though you morph into The Crypt-Keeper the second your 30th birthday candles are blown out. Time to trade in your Chucks for Velcros and start PVRing M*A*S*H. And forget about Forever 21 or Bonnaroo, your old bag of bones aren’t welcome.
They lump you into a category.
What ever happened to the idea that ‘no snowflake is the same?’ Don’t we each arrive at age 30 with unique stories, relationships and experiences that influence our choices? I’m a believer that the path is always ours to shape, bend and break — no matter what your age.
They create myths: now that you’re 30, you should enjoy reading.
I recently asked a friend what was in her library, she listed; RL Stine’s Goosebumps, The Berenstain Bears and The Babysitters Club — she’s 28. I don’t anticipate that she’ll turn 30 and suddenly start curling up by the fire with Eckhart Tolle.
They’re usually written by bullshitters.
The author recently turned 30 and lectures her wisdom from the other side as though she has a doctorate in adult transitioning. She’ll prescribe twentysomethings to
‘wear bold coloured lipstick,’ ‘join pottery classes,’ ‘do something that scares you…’
OK, calm down, she was probably puking in an Uber last Friday night. Regardless, only Oprah is qualified to teach me how to live my life.
They crush your dreams.
I’ll admit when I was younger I romanticized the idea of adulthood. I thought by 28 I’d be a CEO, own a farm house, have two kids, a black lab named Walter and every night I’d dance in the kitchen with my husband to Nora Jones’ “Don’t Know Why.” In reality my life is a twisted version of the song where I’M drenched in wine, and curly fries be on my mind.
Maybe things didn’t quite work out as planned, but I’d like to think there’s still opportunity to dream after the age of 30…
They make you feel inadequate for renting.
Sure, purchasing a home can be a smart investment to build equity and establish community roots. But for jetsetters the long-term commitment and upkeep can be a nightmare.
My most financially successful and bomb-ass friend is 40-years-old and rents her home in Toronto. Having previously owned, she prefers the flexibility and low maintenance of renting and vows to never endure the stress of homeownership again.
They tell you to travel somewhere exotic.
If I’m going to join a book club, sculpt clay bowls, experiment with lipstick and save for a down payment, I can’t afford a two-year excursion throughout South America. Zumba class followed by guacamole and margaritas is as close as it’s going to get.
Because, Happy BIRTHDAY!
No matter how old you’re turning, every day of every year is a blessing. It’s important to have goals, but lets not stress, you’ll get where you’re going when the time is right. As Mama Avery from Making A Murderer says, “just gotta hang in there and whatnot.”