I stared at myself in the Macy’s dressing room mirror. Crisp black sheath dress. Sharp black suit jacket. Professional. Grownup. Just a jaunty neck scarf shy of stewardess.
I’m sorry. Flight attendant.
Oh, honey, my reflection said. You’re not fooling anyone. You’re just a kid in a suit.
But I’m not.
At 31, I’m inching past the age of young professional toward…what…professional? I’ve reached the point of no return—I’m in deep, this thing called adulthood.
But it doesn’t seem that way. Not really. It’s more like I got in the car and drove for hours, days, weeks, and now I’m standing at a gas station on the corner of the Past and the Future and wondering, how did I get here?
I have a full time job with a nice title and a computer with two monitors where I write Important Things for Important People. It’s not just a job. It’s a career. And even though some days I’m not sure I know what I’m doing, I’m pretty sure I’m good at what I do. So I’m told.
The other day I got excited about the arrival of my new vacuum.
I have a husband. We bought a house. We’re decorating a guest room—like a real guest room with art on the walls that didn’t come from Ikea. We talk about things like chimney repairs and floor tiles.
We rescued a dog. An entire being that we are responsible for naming, feeding, walking, trips to the vet.
I worked hard to get here, and I am so lucky.
And yet, it feels like only yesterday I was a lowly copywriter, asking my 30-something colleague when it was that he finally felt like a grownup.
“Still waiting,” he replied.
I am the same age now that he was then. An adult, but still waiting to feel like a grownup.
Even though I’m pretty sure I am one—I just don’t know it yet.