Last month a friend texted me and asked me to bring beans to a golf tournament and help serve lunch to players. I had to decline the invitation to serve, as I had meetings all day, but I still promised I’d bring beans. Baked beans. And she implied that I’d actually cook them. Immediately I knew that wouldn’t happen. I planned to call a local restaurant, order a buttload of beans (because I don’t have any idea of what the difference between one pound and twenty pounds of beans looks like), pick them up and put them in a pretty bowl on Friday, delivering to the course right on time and perfectly dressed. Because right on time and perfectly dressed sound like things adults do when they’re asked to cook for a golf tournament.
Instead, bean day rolled around, I completely forgot, and my friend texted me to ask if I was still bringing beans fifteen minutes before they were due. And, because I’m an idiot, I said, “Of course.”
I jumped in my dirty black minivan and sped to the grocery store. I pondered whether cold beans, positioned beside the potato salad in the refrigerated section, would count; I decided they might not, because she specifically said “baked beans.” And, you know what? I’m thirty-seven years old and still don’t know if you can eat baked beans cold or if the “baked” implies they are warm. I was already going to be late, so showing up with cold beans that maybe should have been warmed would’ve been proof of something I’ve long suspected: I have no business being an adult.
To sum up the bean story, I ended up buying all the beans in the warm section of the deli at a cost of roughly $40. And despite the perfectly coiffed, right on time vision I had in my mind about how this story would end, I was thirty minutes late, had an unidentifiable stain on my blouse, and was suffering from a mild case of swamp ass. (Because I’m fat and this is summer in Arkansas we’re talking about. I’ll never understand why golfers wait until midday swass season to hit a ball with a stick.)
There are plenty of other indicators that I’ve not reached adulthood, too. I won’t eat lettuce, and my favorite drink is apple juice. I’d rather eat at Taco John’s than any place that has a cloth napkin. I don’t like the beach, and a Caribbean vacation sounds less like sunsets and Mai Tais and more like sunburns and jellyfish to my ears. My teenager puked all over his room this summer, and I didn’t even offer to help clean it up, because, ew. My kids tell the best fart jokes … and they learned them all from me. Also, the poop songs. When I’m asked to babysit anything that still wears a diaper, I have a panic attack. And then generally forget to change it unless it starts leaking. I DVR Pretty Little Liars. When the whole family is cleaning the house, I sometimes fake a stomachache and use all of my Candy Crush lives in the bathroom while everyone else is working. I won’t answer the door if I’m home alone.
Unfortunately the most indicators of adulthood lie in my medicine cabinet. Anxiety meds to deal with stress, some Synthroid because my thyroid is killing itself, Zzzquil because it’s the only way I can sleep through my husband’s snoring. There are old pain pills from old surgeries and injuries floating around in that cabinet, too. And there’s an entire container of children’s meds, including inhalers and EpiPens. That scares the crap out of me, but reminds me of the seriousness associated with this adult gig.
I had a big “wake up, you’re an adult” moment last weekend, when I discovered my thirteen-year-old, who wears size eleven shoes, had passed his momma in height. I mean, it’s not that hard to do, but I’m still not used to being a parent — being responsible for little humans — so how in the heck did this happen? I swear it was just a few months ago that he was born. When the doctor put him on my chest, I cried. I cried because I had never been so in love nor so scared.
I wonder, sometimes, when other people feel like adults? Is it at eighteen? When they co-habitate? Buy a home? As for me, I don’t think I’ve solidified any decisions yet … I just changed positions at work, I want to sell my house because I’m bored of it, and I still nudge my husband toward adoption. I’m not done, not grown, not settled.
Oh, well. That’s all the deep thinking I’ve got in me today. It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday night, and I’m about to take a shower and a handful of medicine. I guess that should be all the proof I need that I’m an adult. Or maybe not, as I plan to swallow it with apple juice.
PHOMSITHI'S PLAYGROUND 