I've often wondered when I would feel like an adult. It wasn't when I signed the lease on my first apartment. That just made me feel like Kevin McCallister in Home Alone, like surely someone was going to figure out that my living on my own was all a ruse concocted with the help of a Talkboy in slow-mo mode. It certainly wasn't when I got married: In some ways, the whole day felt like I was playing dress-up (in a good, loving, legally binding way). It definitely wasn't when I had my baby. Despite having him pulled out of my body, I kept thinking he was simply the child assigned to me by the hospital, who would figure out their mistake right before we went home with him, because why on God's green Earth would they trust us with a baby we'd just met? Truthfully, no amount of bills, children, or responsibilities have gotten me to that point just yet. Basically, my life is a series of realizations that I am actually no longer a weird 13-year-old, but then not believing that fact, and then trying to convince myself that I haven't been 13 in 20 years at this point, and that I am — whether I feel it or not — an adult.
Fortunately, pretty much every other adult I know feels between 15 and 20 years behind their actual age. My 51-year-old mother says she more or less identifies as 36. My 75-year-old grandmother is mentally stuck at 45. Me? Depending on the day, I range from about 7 to 20 (20 is when I'm having a really, really put together day). All this is probably not aided by the fact that my stay-at-home mom wardrobe is pretty identical to my middle school wardrobe (jeans, t-shirt, open cardigan, Vans), but I'm also guessing that the on-pointest among us will never outgrow at least occasionally feeling like we're middle-schoolers who have mystically creeped into an adult's life. Chief among those moments are...