Grown Up

When you're 22, you think you have your life figured out.

When you're 32, you doubt you ever will.

I just turned 32 on Sunday. I've been thinking a lot lately, about growing up, about what it means to be an adult. When you turn 30, you suddenly are really not a kid anymore. In my twenties, I still thought I was a kid. But I'm not. I haven't been a long time. I pay bills. I pay rent. I work a real job. No, scratch that. I have a career. I have responsibilities. I have to mop a kitchen floor, I have a cat to look after, I have an ultrarunning lifestyle. 

I can't imagine if I had to do the other stuff, like kids and polishing fences and getting the oil changed in my car. I mean, who has time for that?


I live in a city. I have an active social life, some might think too social. Ultrarunning. Burning Man. Lots of friends. Cramming life in. But I want that cup filled all the way to the top - otherwise, I wouldn't have gotten such a large cup.


But what does it mean to be an adult? It just is when you have a job and pay bills and all that. I still ride my bike in pink miniskirts and leg warmers, wear my hair long, laugh until I'm crying, enjoying friendships, writing. So I have pink hair sometimes, and like to wear tutus. I have a different adult experience. I mean, we all do. Sometimes the way mainstream media tends to frame adulthood scares/depresses me. I want more than that. I want...to follow my dreams. I don't want my dreams to die with age.


And your dreams? They change, yes, with falling in love, with partnership, with kids, with mortgage payments, with seeing someone you love die. But don't lose who you are. Ever.


And remember, when you're not sure who you are - step back, maybe ask some friends. They may remember better than you did.

P.S. Best of all about being an adult - I can eat chocolate in bed and stay up all night dancing and go out for a run at 1a.m. without anyone telling me no or worrying. I like my reality of adulthood.