adult·ing/əˈdəltiNG,ˈaˌdəltiNG/the practice of behaving in a way characteristic of a responsible adult, especially the accomplishment of mundane but necessary tasks.
I remember when I was growing up, I read many Erma Bombeck articles and books. The thing I loved most about her writing was that she wrote about life and the humor that is intrinsically woven throughout it. Her novels were truly, laugh-out-loud funny. I always wanted to write like her. Life, however, has a way of slapping us around. Let me not speak for you; instead I shall say it has a way of slapping me around.
I feel as if the direction I “saw” my life going and the direction it actually “has” gone (so far) are from two very different perspectives. I have met people who just KNEW what they wanted to do when they ‘grew up’. They started young, they learned, invested, grew in their industry and 30, 40, 50 years later, hey guess what? They are still doing it! I always wondered what it felt like to be able to do that. Here I am, still, with no clue. Except, I always knew I wanted to somehow embody the ability to write like Erma. (Yea, kid, good luck with that.) She always made the flaws in life fun! (Honestly, if you haven’t read Erma, you really should pick up a book and try it out.)
So, what does Erma have to do with this particular post? Well, I was reminded of her when I got off the phone with my son. He called to talk to me about his paycheck. I know, that might sound strange, seeing as he is 24 and has been getting a paycheck for awhile now. Yet, he is part of this ‘next’ generation. I have no idea what they are calling it. Is he too young to be a millennial? When did our generations even start getting assigned generational names? What happened to the Y generation? How did we go from X to Z without a Y? Is that even a question I should be asking?
Alas, I digress. He called to argue about the consistency of his paychecks according to (drum roll please) his bank account. Now, the first thing I have to think about is that my son, like many young people, especially (dare I say it?) males, tend to not actually keep records of their spending. Much like the rest of their lives, they enjoy spending more than making, and not keeping track of spending until they want something. Then suddenly it is as if lightning has stuck and they wonder what happened to the money I have been making – it must be the fault of someone other than myself. Let me argue the system.
The “system” as we shall call it is this: he is an auto pay for his paycheck every two weeks. Some deposits don’t get made exactly when he would expect them due to holiday delays. I know, banks! right? I don’t believe banks have as many holidays as teachers though. That might be saying something. Of course, they do have as many holidays as the government. Some sort of weird interconnected voodoo going on there. I mean, banks are privately owned, yet they make sure to share all the federal holidays. Even the ones no one has ever heard of, except the government, when it secretly declared a day, “let’s randomly close for another made-up holiday” day.
Sadly, as I was thinking these things, I realized that I am not so far away from my child in some aspects. I mean adulting is hard. Almost as hard as parenting. Neither comes with a real manual – just some randomly made-up guidelines. Which for the most part, are made up on the spot during a time of high stress or crisis. You do have certain ‘expectations’ in both accounts. As an adult and a parent, we find ourselves at times randomly needlessly spending money for something that really is not needed. Wants are fun too. Woah, wait, let me pull myself back on to the correct train of thought here…
It is not that I didn’t try to teach him how to do things right. How to keep his books (this means fiscal records in case you aren’t in the ‘know’), to set aside some money for a rainy day, to watch his spending and not drain his account. No, I did all those things; even to the point of encouraging him to get a life insurance policy. (No, he hasn’t done that. I mean, why would he? It comes with zero gratification.) No, I realized that I pretty much live week to week, right now, in my life as well. I really should have known better and made better choices. What can I say? Apparently a little and a lot of not much of anything.
I can’t say I ever really knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. Well, I thought I did. Several times in my life I “knew”. I knew I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was in the 6th grade. However, as soon as I saw a video of a dog getting fixed, it was all over for me. I decided then and there it wasn’t in the cards. Too much “ewww, gross” to continue down that path. I mean, who shows a sixth grader those kind of videos anyway? Way to discourage youth! Now-a-days that probably wouldn’t be met with such aversion; after all, there is so much more graphic stuff that kids are watching daily.
Really, the one consistent was my desire to write. At every turn, it seemed to not be in the cards. It’s not that I haven’t stop/started quite a few times. I even had a little book of poetry out in my late teens. Life just has had a way of getting me off track. I spent a lot of time helping other people achieve their goals. Volunteering with ministry, helping to build other people’s businesses, and often, not getting paid for it. The problem was, I enjoyed it. Oh, wait. No that wasn’t the problem. The problem was – not getting paid for it. Sacrificing my time and energy for no physical reward. See, I was rewarded with seeing the happiness produced in others’ lives. Unfortunately, that doesn’t pay the bills. Or maybe it was just I didn’t figure out how to connect the dots.
So, here I am, hitting mid-life stride, wondering what I am supposed to be doing. Other than listening to my son contemplate his fiscal problems. Welcome to adulthood! Is that Karma knocking at the door? I wonder. If it is, you might not want to open it! I would try and warn him. However, he doesn’t often listen to my unsolicited advice. I get it. I am pretty sure he might (and I stress ‘might’) have gotten that from me. Stubbornness runs in the family. Just ask my Mother.