Tag: comic

The topic of adulthood has been on my mind a lot lately. It’s a cartoonish form of adulthood that doesn’t exist, though – one that paints an “adult” as someone with no hobbies or interests, a businesslike frame of mind around everything. I think a part of me feels a need to conform to this fake form of adulthood; so, as I sat on my floor at 4am waiting for a new song to release on Spotify, I felt a dissonance. Is it foolish of me to care so much about the music I like that I’m staying up late? Is this childish? Am I too old for this?

One of my communication courses wrapped up yesterday, and during our final lecture, my professor said to us, “It’s amazing that you guys are so thoughtful and mature, I was never like this at your age.” I was shocked; I don’t think it has crossed my mind recently that I am still allowed to be a dumb kid. I’m so worried about the way I express interest in things or being seen as “childish” that I’m failing to recognize the important ways I’m maturing. This time is precious, and it’s okay to be a bit silly or make mistakes. So what I’m excited for music with the fervor of a thirteen year old girl? I’m gonna dance about it.

I think I’m starting to truly feel like an adult. That may sound silly, but to me it’s dreadfully serious. I’ve spent some time at my family’s home for the holidays, and every morning I woke up in a state of emotional confusion. I open my eyes and something feels wrong; I feel like I’m not supposed to be in my childhood bed. My body’s first reaction is to feel discomfort, to say, “you don’t belong here anymore.” Of course, I love my childhood bedroom and find it to be comforting, yet there’s this tiny voice in my brain that’s creating some distance between who I am today and who I was growing up. It’s telling me that I’m an impersonator of the younger me. College is this odd time where we are given transition time between high school and adulthood, time to navigate what “adulting” means and who we truly are, and I think a lot of times that can cause some natural and necessary discomfort. Discomfort makes life more interesting, so it’s okay. Have a great week!

I got some new shoes for some important life stuff recently, and yesterday I finally gave them their big debut. They fit me well, made me look like a grown working woman. I felt confident and ready to take on the day; however, my brain begged to disagree. As I walked the halls, I started to become increasingly bothered by a potent smacking sound. My shoes. It wasn’t even my shoes hitting the tile; it was my heel, smacking back and forth onto the shoe as I walked. The longer I heard it, the more anxious I became. I became certain that everyone was turning their heads to think, “Who is that girl with the loud shoes?” (they were most certainly not doing this). My body was heating up with uncomfortable embarrassment – the air around me vibrated, vividly red. I was counting down the seconds, hoping I was done walking soon.

What’s particularly funny about this is how little everyone else would care about this; looking back on it now, there was no way that my shoes were causing a commotion. There was no way that anyone was judging me because of them, but this is the wonder of the human body: anxiety and shame. My funny self-sabotaging nature was convincing me I was a laughing stock over something as small as shoes; in this moment I was transported to what is almost elementary school-level embarrassment. It’s natural to be nervous – I was meeting a lot of new people, excited and scared all at once, and in order to deal with these new feelings I fixated on my shoes. It’s funny how people work.