A la 1960s. Smirn smoking.
I am an adult. I come to this realization with equal satisfaction and terror: satisfaction because I always thought growing up would be miserable, and it's not, but terror because it could just be a matter of time. As I get older though, it seems unlikely.
I am an adult. Yesterday night I invited friends over to watch the season premiere of a historical drama about the 1960s on AMC. That's very adult! This surprises me! My age is legal adult! It has been for years, but, still, I go, "What? Me?"
I am an adult. I invite people into the condo I pay rent for by tending my own schedule of work. I buy my own tomato sauce and make my own pizza rolls. I find recipes for chocolate vegan cake puffs, and I make a double batch.
I watch adults on TV--adults who, if they were real people--would now be in their 80s. But they are childlike. Moreso than me even--because, I am an adult...maybe not all the time, but, actually most of the time now.
I am an adult and I know when to turn down a trip out for milkshakes because I have grading to do before school starts again. Farewell, Spring Break. I'm an adult who knows not to try to clean the hot cooking pan right away, but also how to scrape away the burnt chocolate under the faucet.
We dressed up.
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