Can we just take a moment to talk about adult acne?
I mean, seriously. This $hit is not cool.
In fact, I’ve actually never forgiven my dad for misguidedly assuring me that once I turned sixteen, I wouldn’t have pimples any more. What the hell, dad? WHAT. THE. HELL.
Ok, ok, maybe “acne” is a bit of an overstatement. But “huge freaking pimple the size of Vesuvius on my chin” is definitely not.
The truth about adulthood is that it’s a lot like being a teenager. I still get spots. I still borrow my parents car. I still drink until I’m sick (and I’m still not proud of that). I still make bad decisions. Like staying out way past my bedtime, on week (school) nights, when I have a day full of meetings (classes) the next day.
The only difference is my parents don’t know what time I get home, and I have more money to spend.
So when does it all stop? When do I become a “real” adult?
Is it when I have a mortgage? Unlikely, given what I know of my friends.
Is it when I turn a certain age? I think we can safely rule that out, given some of the 40, 50, and 60 years olds I know.
Is it when I have a kid? Put it this way, some of the parents I know are more immature than their kids.
My theory is this: I’ll reach adulthood when I finally learn D.I.Y. Oh yes, the fabled pinnacles of “doing it yourself”. I’m not talking assembling Ikea furniture with an allen key here, I’m talking fixing a hem with a needle and thread instead of a safety pin. Fixing a permanently open cupboard with more than blu-tac. Mounting pictures where I actually want them, instead of making do with the hooks already in the walls.
A whole other life awaits me. One day.