Please don’t call me an adult because, well, I’m not an adult. I can’t be. If I’m an adult, we’re all screwed. Yes, okay, I’m 27 years old. I can legally drink, vote and join the army (those are listed in order of importance). I pay rent and bills and am able to get up and out of bed in order to be at work on time. I get a paycheck. I pay taxes (I think? I’m still not fully on board with the whole meaning of “taxes”). Teenagers and incorrect grammar really, really annoy me. But I’m not an adult. No way.
I came to this conclusion the other day when I was unable to cook a frozen pizza correctly. Everything was going so well. I preheated the oven (big adult move, if you ask me), put my pizza in said preheated oven, waited the appropriate 10 minutes and then removed my pizza from the oven. I even immediately turned the oven off so I didn’t forget and accidentally burn my apartment to the ground, as some real adults have warned me is in fact possible.
But then things took a turn for the worse. Spatula in hand, I attempted to lift my pizza from the baking sheet and onto a plate. No dice. I tried from the other end. Nope, not budging. And then I realized – I didn’t spray the baking sheet with PAM. My glorious Ellio’s pizza was basically glued to the baking sheet. Who forgets to spray the sheet?! I was out of options and very hungry, so I scraped the top layer of pizza off and put it on a plate and ate the disfigured pile of sauce and cheese with a fork. Yep, I still ate it. And it was delicious. And I in no way regret that decision.
The next morning I woke up and walked out to the kitchen only to find the baking sheet with the bottom remnants of my pizza (covered with a dish towel to hide my shame from my roommate, of course) still sitting on the counter. A physical reminder of my inability to function in the real world. And it hit me: an adult should be able to cook frozen pizza, right? That’s probably like Adult 101, I would think. Though, maybe the real question is – should an adult actually be eating frozen pizza as a legitimate dinner meal? Probably not.
Anyway, this whole ordeal sent me into a full on shame spiral in which I decided it would be a good idea to really nail down the evidence proving that “I’m not an adult, so leave me alone.” Some items on this list are as follows:
- The fact that I have to take out the trash and don’t get paid for it makes me want to break things.
- I do not have a driver’s license.
- I have no idea what GOP stands for and zero desire to look into it.
- The biggest stresser I have on my mind these days is deciding if I should do that cool ombre thing to my hair (but by the time I do it, will it not be cool anymore?! I JUST DON’T KNOW!)
- I am still obsessed with the Backstreet Boys.
- I have been directly involved in two separate toaster oven fires.
- My bath towels don’t match, nor will they ever.
- One time it took me 30 minutes to change my Brita filter.
- Sometimes I run out of clean underwear.
As you can imagine, this list went on and on. And it became very clear to me that although I’m not a kid I shouldn’t be called an adult. Let’s consider me in the training bra of adulthood. I mean, there are pre-teens, right? Why can’t there be pre-adults? There must be a gaggle of pre-adults just hanging out somewhere, not wearing any clean underwear and eating the top layer of their frozen pizzas together. And I really need to get in on that.
By Maggie Fremont
Featured image via.