I was facebook chatting with a friend this morning who told me, jokingly, that I have no idea what it’s like to be a “real adult”.
My first thought was, “What?” I have a job. I run a small company. I manage my house. I have insurance. I’m responsible. I get the oil changed on time, floss my teeth every day, go to the dermatologist, and take out the trash. I’m an attorney! I’m a teacher! How more grown-up does it get?
But I looked at my day, and I knew what she meant by “real adult”. I woke up at 9am today, and was so proud for getting up that early. At noon, I laid on the couch for an hour and read a magazine next to the Christmas tree. I’m still wearing Scrabble pajamas at 1pm. And I’m not on vacation; this is a regular day.
So I’m not a real adult because I don’t have a 9-to-5 job and pay a mortgage? I’m not a real adult because I travel 3-6 months of the year?
I see the point, but I disagree. I think we get to define what being a real adult is. Being a “real” adult is deciding what matters to you and going after it.
For me, that means giving up career prestige for sleeping until noon. It means prioritizing travel over owning my own home, and finding a way to still have a rent-free home. It means working coupons, the drugstore game, and all my other money-saving tricks so that I can be out of student-loan debt soon and still occasionally go out for sushi.
You get to pick your own grown-up life. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. We are having cookies and Coke Zero for lunch, and then playing Scrabble tonight after work. My adult life is awesome.
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