In August, I started drinking oat milk. Sometimes I listen to jazz. Other times, ‘70s yacht rock, but never today’s top hits. Gone are the days when I’d allow myself to listen to today’s top hits. I drink rosé out of tastefully procured antique glasses (oh yeah, I go antiquing now). I like to peruse aisles and point at ugly ceramics and say, “Wouldn’t that look amazing with our backsplash?” (because I totally know what a backsplash is). I use words like “juxtaposition” and “je ne sais quoi,” while casually weaving into the conversation that, this morning, I listened to NPR, just because that’s a thing I like to do sometimes.
Why am I so sophisticated, you ask? What made me so grown up, so well-spoken, so capable of discussing adult topics like jazz and backsplashes? It’s because I’m a senior now. I live off-campus. I pay for utilities and shop at Aldi.
The only thing worse than being an adult is the fact that it has a special verb dedicated to this most miserable of states. Yes, I’m talking about the terrifying and unappetizing “adulting.” As in, “Why did you just spend two hours at the post office?” The response: “Oh, I was adulting.” The word sends literal shivers down my spine.
The only thing worse than having a special verb to describe the state you’re in is actually having to enact said verb. As in, I have to go through all the Tupperware in my fridge because: adulting. As in, I have to schedule my senior pictures myself because: adulting. As in, I like to buy my gas on the Indiana side because I heard on NPR this morning that the Michigan side is more expensive and because: adulting.
The only thing worse than being an adult is the fact that, while I may legally be one, the rest of the world seems to think I am still a small child, or at least something adjacent to it. Take, for example, the National's Baseball game I attended with my cousins last summer. When my 13-year-old cousin went up to claim her “Kids eat free, 13 and under” burger, the lady behind the counter gave me a toothy grin and handed me a burger too. “Kids eat free!” She repeated as if the original offense wasn’t damaging enough to my pride. Or, take for example, the fact that nearly every solo flight I schedule leads to me getting stopped by a flight attendant and asked where my “adult” is. The adult is me, of course, but no one on the plane seems to know that, and so they’ll help me lift my bags into the overhead compartment and give me a small, knowing smile when I ask for an extra packet of Milano’s. That smile quickly fades into confusion when my drink of choice is a sauvignon blanc.
Being mistaken for a kid has its perks. But, what’s the point of being mistaken for a kid if you really are an adult? And, what determines if you’re an adult or not anyway? If being an adult means that you have a lot of worries, then I suppose I’ve been grown up since kindergarten. If being an adult means you have a lot of duties and tasks, then I suppose I’m not one yet, not really anyway, since the majority of my responsibilities consist of feeding myself and making sure I turn in my assignments before 11:55 p.m. EST.
On Thursday, my three best friends and I went out to celebrate Anita’s 21st, the last of our quartet to become legal. We chose “The Cellar” — a classy downtown wine bar whose menu consists of various charcuteries and pinot noirs. We sat outside on the patio and played a dice game while sipping on blueberry-infused cocktails and espresso martinis (with oat milk creamer, naturally). The waiter suggested we check out an art gallery nearby that combines paintings with drinks and jazz music, which seemed to me to be three of the most adult things in the world. Supposedly, the juxtaposition between art and alcohol fuses together to create an eccentric and erudite experience. The bar also happens to be on the inside of an abandoned apartment, just to ensure its edginess and adultness, in case someone wasn’t convinced of this by the whole art gallery-combined-with-alcohol-and-DJs thing.
At closing time, our little quartet were the only customers left inside “The Cellar.” As we walked across St. Joseph’s River together — chatting and giggling and enjoying what it feels like to be freshly 21 — I wondered if we should take the waiter’s recommendation. Was an art gallery-combined-with-alcohol-and-DJs inside an abandoned apartment the kind of place adults went to? Were we doing the kinds of things adults did — closing down wine cellars and walking over rivers while discussing grad school applications?
On the Uber back, we sighed about what assignments we still had to finish before Monday. I felt like such a kid, talking about classes and group projects and books to read. Sometimes I look at the freshmen — the class of 2028 — and admire how adorable they are. Was I ever really that small? Though, to them, I’m sure I still look naïve and unsure. It’s only me that knows the difference.
On Thursday, my maternal grandmother (my lola) turned 89. Before going to “The Cellar,” I facetimed her. I asked her if she felt her age. “Physically, yes,” she said. “But mentally, I feel sixty. I never forget a name.” Maybe age really is just a number. Maybe we’ll never be able to fully accept the stage of life we’re in. If I’ve learned one thing by being poised on the precipice of adulthood, it’s that adults are mostly the same as kids, except that they have to pretend that they’re not. This act of pretending, this implementation of the verb adulting, is really hard to explain to anyone who’s not an adult yet. It just has a certain je ne sais quoi.
Gracie Eppler is a senior business analytics and English major from St. Louis, MO. Her three top three things ever to exist are '70’s music, Nutella and Smith Studio 3, where she can be found dancing. You can reach her at geppler@nd.edu.
