Adulthood Is a Myth
Growing up, I embodied the essence of a wallflower. I spent much of my time conforming and camouflaging like a chameleon, keeping my voice soft and often still, with the hope of evading the cruel middle and high school social radars. Better simply to go unnoticed than to risk becoming a complete social pariah, was my thought. I had friends who, for the most part, shared in my unspoken philosophy. Make no assumptions; we were envious of the popular royalty, but playing it safe together was more our speed. Friday nights spent recording ridiculous radio show spoofs over a pizza or sneaking through neighboring yards to hop the nearby cemetery wall and sit chatting against the sunset were the norm. Once blessed with the gift of a drivers' license, we would drive by the latest crush's house and swoon with wonder over whether he was inside and what he must be doing. It didn't matter that he likely wasn't there at all, since he probably had some semblance of an actual life. Maybe he was there, but he was calling the cops. My point is that my friends and I were unified in our social inadequacies. We were off the grid without being alone. By design, we made no waves traveling along in our submarine, where we could happily be our quiet selves. I know now that in making no waves, I myself also made no meaningful contributions, in spite of having plenty to offer. I felt compelled to hunker down just long enough to make it to adulthood. Then, I thought, I finally would be afforded the luxury of offering myself without fear of persecution or judgement. I believed adults got a free pass to be themselves.
College was an opportunity to try on different groups of people and see how they fit. My eventual introduction to alcohol made this continual shopping spree considerably more interesting, not to mention infinitely easier. I was bulletproof, and I could do or say almost anything without expecting social backlash. I wouldn't say I ever had a drinking problem in the traditional sense. I reserved it for weekend parties and the like, the standard for so many college students. What was problematic was that my newfound, so-called connections with people were shallow streams in which to wade. I might have been able to offer myself to the world fearlessly with alcohol at the helm, but at the expense of deeper relationships. I agreed to settle for that compromise for some time. I hoped it would get me through until I became an adult and obtained my much anticipated free ticket to give zero shits what anyone thought of me.
Fast forward a few years. I got married, became an orthodontist, popped out four kids, and here I sit. Truth? I'm still waiting for adulthood, and I'm 36 years old. I expected marriage and professionalism and parenthood to launch me into that realm naturally, because they are such adult-y things. I even drink coffee and say things like, "when I was a kid," and "because I said so," and "don't make me turn this car around" and, a favorite, "stop eating your boogers." As it turns out, adulthood is actually a myth. There is no magic time when the defenses come down and vulnerability is suddenly comfortable. Most of us adults routinely navigate the world faking it, with false expectations to make it one day. Some people are seasoned super-fakers, too, which makes us crappy fakers feel the need to hustle harder. But here's the thing I’ve learned: nobody gets a free pass. We only ever get the pot of gold we think we're promised if we choose vulnerability over and over and over again. My "adult" age has done nothing but present me with more chances to do that than ever before. More times than I care to admit, though, I still don't choose it, because it is always hard. Instead, I sometimes revert to my 12 year old self, retreating into my shell and hoarding my gifts, or I call on my 18 year old self, employing false courage from one avenue or another, just to try to be seen. Either way, I'm left standing with empty hands every time I opt for the easier path.
I was at a small gathering recently with a few other moms, and we started talking about how we interact with other women in our community, particularly other moms, now that we are "grown-ups" and all. I couldn't believe how many of them said they feel like they're still in middle school. From discussing the exclusive mom cliques to our own innate insecurities, we might as well have been sitting around in our PJ's with acne cream on our faces and retainers in our mouths. We talked about the moms who think they are in charge of all the things, including other parents, because power is the veil they wear to feel good about themselves. Then there are the moms floating around with immaculate makeup and beautiful blowouts (likely bestowed upon them through the breath of angels themselves) who smile through their perfect teeth as they chisel away at your self confidence merely by existing in your same zip code. There are the moms who say yes to every blessed school volunteering job and who bring carefully crafted, pinterest-worthy treat bags for each class party, specifically so that my kids will ask me why the hell I am completely failing them as a mother. There are so many others groups, but all of them deliberately or innocently manage to evoke a feeling of "not enough" in us women who haven't yet figured out how to scale the rainbow.
I really appreciated that night with those ladies. We laughed and even cried a little. It was wonderful to feel connected to them while being fully present as myself. I realized I am not alone in my insecurities, even as an adult, or in my desire to do life better, more fully. I certainly have a more sincere understanding of the quote by Rumi that Brené Brown references in my favorite book of hers, Rising Strong: "We're all just walking each other home." Yes. Yes, indeed.
