I raced down the stairs and out the office. With one hand, I loosened my tie and top button of my shirt, with the other, I held tight onto my car keys. The week was over and I would soon be on my way to freedom. When I finally reached my car, I threw my bag into the back seat and raced out of the parking lot and up the highway. The whole time the theme song to the cartoon, the Flintstones, played in my head, you know the one where Fred Flintstone gets off work, slides down the dinosaur’s tail, and cries out “yabba-dabba-doo.”
I was off to pick-up my fiancé and then to a cozy restaurant to meet up with some of her friends. I wouldn’t think about work and my crummy job again until late on Sunday evening when I would have to start the grind all over again. I would spend my next day sleeping in and chilling. When I would start to get around, it was just to hang out and grab a bite with my fiancé. I was absorbed with . . . me.
Fast forward to my thirties, I drove home from work, done on the Friday night, thinking of the various routes my wife and I would take, when the time came to get to the hospital to deliver baby number two. We had been ready for weeks. We knew anything could happen in child birth and we went out of our way to make sure that we were ready for as many of the possible emergencies as humanly possible. Of course, we spent the weekend putting the finishing touches to the baby’s room and packing and re-packing our emergency bag.
Now in my fifties, I logged off my laptop a recent Friday night and walked down stairs to ask my wife which bottle of wine she wanted to open and which Netflix movie or series she wanted to watch. We shared idle chit chat over dinner talking about our weekend chores and how we wanted to sleep-in on Saturday morning.
When did this happen?
I can’t help but wonder what happened: When did my me-focused weekends get replaced with changing sheets in the bed, mowing the yard and laying mulch, and reviewing my 401(k) balance? When did we change from care free, happy go lucky young adults to boring adults?
Oh, I still vaguely remember my geeky, pimple faced teenager years. I appreciate what I learned, but I never want to return to them. Let’s just say, “been there, done that.” You couldn’t pay me to go back.
As a kid, I remember looking forward to being an adult. I would have my own car. I would come and go as I pleased. No one would be holding me down. The world was my oyster. What the hell happened?
Adulting is for the birds
I’ve tried being a grown up and I don’t like it. Sadly we’ve been the victims of a massive conspiracy. Some may call it a “vast right wing conspiracy.” However, I suspect the Democrats are just as guilty as the Republicans. Our grandparents, parents, civic leaders, teachers, coaches, and other loved ones lied to us. Yes, they lied. They never warned us about the challenges of being an adult.
Here’s what I mean.
–They never told us that as an adult you can eat all you want, no one is stopping you, but if you try it, you’ll get sick and pray that God is a loving God and will make you feel better soon.
–They never warned us that you can tell the police in Sammy Hagar’s music video to eat your dust and drive over 55 mph, but tickets get expensive and you’ll find that more-often-than-not, it’s probably safer anyway to keep it to the speed limit. In addition, it gets tiring constantly looking for state troopers sitting along the side of the roadway with radar guns sticking out their window. You find that more and more anymore you throw in the towel and just drive the speed limit.
–You can leave your clothes inside out and throw them on the floor, but, the end of the day, someone has to pick them up.
–You can party every weekend to your hearts content, no one is stopping you, but A.) it gets expensive, B.) it gets tiring, feeling like crap and having a hangover every other weekend, and C.) it quickly loses its fun and spontaneity.
–You can miss as many bills as you want, no one really, really cares, but eventually a nice friendly banker is going to kick you out of your house or apartment and while living like a nomad sounds like fun, it soon loses its appeal.
Yes, it’s a massive conspiracy. Everyone lied to us. I suppose they were just looking out for us, but it’s still a lie. What’s next? They’re going to tell us that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are fake?
Hey, I may be in my fifties and doomed to adulthood, but I’m still a kid at heart.