It's not like I watch 'The Mentalist' or anything, but for better or worse, mostly for worse (?), I'm an adult now.
I hold down two low-paying jobs, I'm married (that's the sweetest part, actually), and last weekend I read a dull Soviet SF book by Arkady & Boris Strugatsky. No, I don't want to talk about it, I want to talk about being a grown-up. Damn it.
Because, in dog years, I'm a rapidly aging human man. With a human man-sized mortgage. And my own sets of keys to things.
My BFF's daughter turns 19 tomorrow (yay!) and that just can't be, since I'M still nineteen!
I think I'm in a state of shock that apparently retroactively turned my temples grey over the previous couple of years. (And gave me one pernicious white ear-hair.)
Long ago, I genuinely believed that, (one future day) I would wake up and KNOW I was a responsible adult. Everything (well, maybe not EVERYTHING) would make sense and I'd have a clear idea of how to run all my affairs alone. I'm thankful beyond the telling for my amazing spouse, who usually makes that unnecessary.
But, with my lovely Trish away for a time, I noticed that I am still a relatively functional guy.
Granted, I've let my body go. (I'm a nice guy, I let it go where it wants!) Plus, I was weak and scrawny before I was weak and porky. (I only need this meat sack to carry my brain in, anyway.)
I do my dishes and laundry (well, machines do them). I got myself to the dentist (well, Trish made the appointments and paid the nice people to give us a going over with the cleaning pick). I even get groceries and haircuts and stuff.
And when I have no inspiration or interest I force myself to write drivel at you because that's what I do. It's the kind of guy I am.
So here's to looking after myself.
Keep looking after yourselves, too.
Now to make some dinner.