Adult, Shmadult.

Somehow, by some sordid magic of a sadistic sorcerer (dramatic much?) I stumbled upon about seventy thousand articles about what it means to be thirty this past weekend. Countless articles suggested items every self-respecting 30-year-old should have in their home, 25 things all 30-somethings should've learned in their 20s and other random gems that we're suppose to magically acquire by the time our third decade hits. After reading through said articles, fearful of the fact that I'd fail all imaginary tests, I could only check off like 3 things from each list. Fear of failure became reality with the final encouraging word, intended to assure me that I had plenty of time to master all of this adultery. (Not that kind of adultery!)

I wasn't assured. I was completely freaked out. As mentioned before in posts about crises and getting older, thirty looms nearer like a dark cloud and I'm terrified of standing in the metaphorical rains of disappointment and regret. And now I've been reminded of all things I either do wrong or not at all. I'm the kind of girl with spoiled milk in her fridge because she doesn't really like milk but purchases it as a 'staple grocery item' and shoves it behind the tastier beverages. I'm the girl who never has ketchup, like ever, and goes searching for leftover Heinz packets from last week's Seamless order. Although I'm really working on it, my apartment is rarely clean enough to have company, and if I'm ever early for a get together, you should check to make sure we haven't spun into another dimension. Simple things like fresh flowers make my day, and I'm liable to binge-watch the Disney channel when something ruins it. Every time I pull something out of the oven, I fear that I'll burn myself because I have the culinary prowess of a 4 year old (and because I've done it multiple times). In fact, sometimes I avoid cooking altogether for weeks and eat the most random combination of foods for dinner, like dried cranberries and asparagus tips. Basically, I'm the worst excuse for an adult ever.

But why? Why am I not capable of doing adult-like things? It's like I've been programmed to forget normal things like "hey, pick up some toilet paper, you've run out" or "maybe it's not such a good idea to go to bed at 6am." When I was 22, it wasn't so bad. My incapability of acting older than 16 was endearing in some ways. But at 26, I feel like I'm looking down the barrel of life and all of my failures are stacking up against the trigger, threatening to blow me to smithereens. That's a hell of an analogy.

The point is this: The closer I get to 30, the more I realize that being a young, 20-something who has like 6% of her life together is not acceptable. I'm not a "little girl" anymore as every real adult in my life would put it. Eventually (meaning I don't know yesterday!), I'm going to have to be responsible enough to take out the trash before it starts to smell, remember to iron my clothes at night instead of throwing on a slightly wrinkled dress and thinking it will fall out by noon, and not forget the due date on my electric bill. Seriously, thank goodness I don't have a child yet. I cringe thinking of the mayhem that kid would live through. Most days, I kinda feel like a chicken with its head cut off, wadding around in the waters and teetering on the cusp when a misstep lands me in the deep end of adulthood with huge waves crashing into my... neck? Again, the analogy.

Is being an adult as daunting a task for anyone else, or am I simply overdramatic? It's okay if it's the second one. Wouldn't be the first time.