Uhhhh. I’ve spent several minutes staring blankly at this blank page. It’s the least productive way to work through my 30 minutes of daily writing. Even typing the same word over and over would at least fill up some kind of imaginary word quota that makes me feel like I’ve put the barest amount of effort in. I’d feel some sense of accomplishment knowing that I’d been active even if it wasn’t compelling stuff. No I thought, I’m not gonna commit words to the page unless they’re worth reading for somebody. Buuuut then I wrote everything above, which has no worth to anyone, so it all came out in the wash.
Why am I so exhausted? Well I’ve been productive adulting. I’ll draw a distinction between adulting and adultery, because it’s worth noting. Adulting means the girlfriend and I went to IKEA and picked up all manner of things to trick people into thinking we’re doing ok at this older human business. We got flashy new pillows, a mattress protector, a shoe rack and incidental little household objects. How adult is that? My shoes now have somewhere presentable and practical to live. We can use vertical space to our advantage. I knew there was a reason we left flatland for this extra dimension. Because shoes needed somewhere to sleep. We also got frozen yoghurt, because adult or not, leaving IKEA without it is foolish in any dimension.
It’s all well and good having all of these things, but how convincing is an adult façade if everyone can’t see the presentable nature of all your adult stuff? You’ve gotta show it off like any of it actually matters. To keep up the illusion we needed several things: A fridge/pantry full of nutritional food, a clean kitchen/bathroom and floors cleared of shiftless sediment. Off to the supermarket we marched, grabbing cheese, fruit and vegetables, breakfast materials and tinned beans (and every free sample we could get our hands on. Today’s buffet involved 7 or 8 different cured meats and huge scoops of locally made ice cream). Adults also brunch, so out of pure necessity we dined on eggs, cheese, toast and grilled garlic tomatoes. In all honesty, I was just looking for a flimsy excuse to eat marmite.
Then we spent a good hour or two just cleaning things. Floors needed vacuuming and mopping. The shower had gone so long without scrubbing that we’d developed an ecosystem of black mould. I’ve no wish to go the way of Brittany Murphy, so a black mould genocide was in order. In the mean time, my girlfriend tackled the layers of scum growing on the stovetop, bench and sink. Disposing of all the garbage, washing the sheets and working through the IKEA shoe rack instructions brought us to the finish line. Success, our ruse of adult competence was complete.
Over the past few years I’ve been searching for signs that I’m growing up, ageing, moving towards whatever stage comes next. It dawned on me over the course of this effort that we were faking adulting by adulting for real. It’s happening. I gave serious consideration to my credit card points system, for fuck’s (and free groceries’) sake. I caught myself using the word “our” in lieu of “my” when talking about the place where I live. If that’s not a portent of development, I’m gonna need a super obvious sign.
Then again, I’m about to go to a bar to heckle the Super Mario Bros movie, so all is not lost quite yet.