Full-Fledged Adulthood

When it’s time to trade Happy Hour for Home Depot.

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You don’t realize it’s happened until it’s too late. First, you develop small, seemingly innocuous habits, like going to bed earlier, using SPF religiously, and starting to avoid dairy because you know it will upset your stomach.  

Then before you know it, you prefer siestas over fiestas (but let it be said that sombreros are welcomed for both occasions), you diligently study the grocery store’s weekly circulars, and the bartender doesn’t even bother checking your I.D. anymore. Yes, that’s right. I’m talking about the pandemic that is taking hold of myself and my fellow millennials ’round the world: adulthood.

No one intends to be an adult. I certainly didn’t. As a child, I had major plans for when I grew up that included becoming a Crime Scene Investigator after watching one too many CSI episodes. When I wasn’t busy dusting for fingerprints or having long, scientific monologues that I didn’t understand, I would be tending to my pair of Dachshunds, lovingly named “Ketchup” and “Mustard.” And on my wall would be the winning check from my Wheel of Fortune appearance as a victorious contestant. But nowhere in the Erin Maher Life Grand Schemes was the idea of being an adult part of the program. 

But, I’ve recently turned 30, and with that comes the realization that I’ve somehow managed to stumble my way into the weeds of adulthood. My driver’s license says I’m 30, but my heart says I’m 30 – 9 years. Youth, it’s Erin. Are you there?

Adulthood is deciding that looking crazy is acceptable as long as I look a youthful crazy.

There were quite a few signs that led me to this self-discovery that I was “adulting” full-time. 

First, it’s all about sleep. You wake up thinking about how you didn’t get enough of it, you daydream about getting more of it, and can’t wait to pop back in under the covers. Sleep is at a premium. Long gone are the nights spent staying out ’til 4 a.m., wired from the restlessness of youth and the false information that anything good happens after midnight. Not even the happiest of happy hours can keep me out, nor the most tropical of drinks nor the vague notion that I can be an agent of chaos for the evening. No, no. Now, I am promptly in bed by 11 p.m., weekday or weeknight. If I’m not, I know the next day I am a cranky little hobgoblin. And sleeping in? We don’t know her. Because now that I’m on a strict bedtime schedule, my body goes on autopilot and is up and moving by 7 a.m. every day, whether I like it or not. (For one’s edification, I do not.)

Secondly, when in youth, I wanted to wear the brightest, boldest, and most unnatural makeup I could find. Now, being an adult is really about taking care of that canvas: the skin. And nothing ages you more than the Vitamin D death rays of the sun, and my multiple layers of sunscreen will keep those wrinkles at bay as long as I diligently reapply every hour on the hour. Before spending any time outdoors, I apply SPF 70+, which many think is overboard. But I say using anything less than SPF 50 is child’s play. If I’m going out for extended periods in the sun, I wear layers and sleeves and cover my decolletage and wear massive hats and sunglasses, so I look like a mature, mercurial socialite. And crazy. But adulthood is deciding that looking crazy is acceptable as long as I look a youthful crazy. 

The day I knew that I was a fully realized adult was the day that I went to Home Depot of my own volition. As a child, my first enemy was the monster hiding under my bed, but a close second was Home Depot. I never understood the appeal. There’s enough wood dust flying around at Home Depot that you can get a contact high. I couldn’t touch anything in the store as a child because there were so many tools that posed a danger, and the orange color on all the aprons was assaulting to the eyes.  

While the orange is still a crime against our vision, a store that I believed to be a boring, barren wasteland of dads congregating is now where I spend my weekends. I bought a drill! Me. Wow. Who’d have thought? Not seven-year-old me, that’s for sure. 

I check my bank account regularly, do my laundry, and even sometimes write checks. Where in my youth there was plenty of unknown, now there is a predictable routine. And sure, the most significant risk I may take during the week is browsing Zillow without a maximum home price set. But I’m okay with that. 

The reality is, even though a lot of us never planned on it, we’ve all gotta grow up sometime. And you know what? That’s okay. With age comes a greater comfort with oneself, more confidence, and hopefully the means to live life the way you want. But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for youth. 

My most significant vestige of youth is in my Carvel order. One small vanilla soft-serve cone covered in rainbow sprinkles. I’d even risk going out in sunlight without SPF to get it. 

Erin Maher is a writer and Westchester native. She has written on a myriad of topics, including life as a millennial and tennis. When not writing, Erin can be found on the tennis and pickleball courts or lovingly scrolling through pictures of dogs on Instagram. For more of her musings, visit erinmaherwrites.com, and follow her on Instagram @erinmaherwrites and Twitter @erinmaherwrites.

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