The Defiance of Adulting
Over the past year, my husband and I have been adulting…hard. We got engaged, finished our professional training, got married, sold a house, moved to a new state, bought a Subaru, paid off student loans, hosted a reception, joined finances. As the coup de gras to this year of massive change and responsibility, we’re buying a house. TAH DAH! (Insert slow clap and offer of shots.)
Needless to say, we have fully extended the elastic in the big girl panties. At this point, we’re seriously ready for some Underoos (Okay, that’s my husband. I’m partial to footie pajamas, but you get the idea.)
All this adulting is exhausting, so this week we took time out for bourbon and cigar night…on a Wednesday…in the parking pad of our apartment…seated in bag chairs from the trunk of our uber-adult, safety first Subaru. Classy, I know. And in the rambling way we do when bourbon is involved, we lazily chatted our way to what we would buy once we pay off my husband’s car (nothing says relaxing evening like “fiscal responsibility.”) Lots of things got thrown around, but we ultimately discovered that we have a deep, mutual, previously undiscovered love of soft top Jeeps. Huh…I feel like that should have come up in pre-marital counseling.
After agreeing that it would be wicked cool to own one, my poor husband, thoroughly brainwashed by this adulting thing, looked at me and said something to the effect of “But only if we get those massive seat belt things that buckle in front of your chest and hold you in place like a fighter pilot so if it does roll you can’t move.” No idea what that is but DONE! I’m pretty sure we just negotiated our way to a safely constructed death trap with zero resale value that I fully intend to drive while sipping from a roadie after laying on the beach all day being completely useless. Perhaps we should have implemented this version of adulting sooner…WAY more fun and much better for my tan.
The thing is, there is no right way to be an adult. If you are engaged in some sort of meaningful work, take responsibility when you fuck up, pay your own way, save for a rainy day, bitch about taxes, are good to your little people and fur babies, and make your marriage the most important relationship in your life, you too can be just as good of an adult as the rest of us. Credit scores grant you the ability to buy a house, yes, but they are not a metric of your value in this life.
The best part of being an adult is the freedom of choice. It’s the ability to say Wednesday is an entirely appropriate day to get sloshed with your husband on public property while looking like a redneck. We earned that choice because we do pay our rent, on time, every month. We (well, I) pick up our dog’s poop, watch for strange activity, and speak to our neighbors. We are good people who are learning to balance the weight of our responsibility with the thrill and relief of being just a little bit bad. And selfish. And carefree. And happy.
Adulting is hard. Marriage is hard. Both are forever.
Choice is liberating. So are Jeeps.
