I’m a Grown-Up Now (Or, The Day I Almost Bought a Grandma Purse)

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Not long ago, I was wandering through a department store when a purse suddenly caught my attention. I picked it up, tossed it over my shoulder, and then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I gasped in shock: it was definitely a grandma purse. I nearly hurled it back onto the shelf like it was a spider crawling up my arm.

So this is how it happens, I thought. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. One innocent purse purchase at a time, and before I know it, my candy dishes will start filling up with Werther’s Originals, and my pockets will be stuffed with crumpled tissues. I’ll be buying “slacks” and insisting on taking home leftovers from my dinner at 4 PM.

I recently celebrated my 46th birthday, which means I am, without a doubt, in the thick of middle age. I’ve got all the markers of adulthood: I own a home, pay taxes, and (mostly) remember to floss and schedule my yearly check-ups. I even got a prescription for progressive lenses and accepted the fact that I won’t be winning a Nobel Prize or an Olympic medal anytime soon. It hit me that I’m no longer a contemporary of the contestants on shows like American Idol but rather their parents—those middle-aged folks hanging around the sidelines. And so it goes: whimpers, not bangs.

Despite discovering gray hairs with alarming frequency, my immediate reaction is one of disbelief: THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! I STILL FEEL LIKE A KID!

“I keep waiting for the parents to come home,” I admitted to my friends.

I remember the exact moment it began. Back in my late 20s, living alone in a cozy D.C. apartment, a close friend and her husband had just bought their first house—a charming Colonial surrounded by trees. They had grown-up furniture, a spare room, and even a lawn mower. When they invited me over for dinner one evening, as we lingered over coffee, I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” they asked.

“I keep waiting for the parents to come home,” I replied.

Being the youngest of five kids, my youth has been a significant part of my identity. “Oh, you’re the baby!” people would say when they met me. But being the youngest also meant I spent my childhood watching my older siblings navigate adulthood while I was still figuring things out. My oldest brother was off to college by the time I was in second grade.

I grew to believe that only age brought privilege and respect. I yearned to grow older, to shed my youth like a weight. I wanted to rush through life, just like my brothers did, eager to reach the next milestone. What I didn’t realize was that I would never truly catch up to them, and if I didn’t take the time to enjoy the journey, I would miss out on everything.

Adding to my insecurities, my parents were significantly older. Their high school yearbooks from the 1940s felt as if they were from another era. Their taste in music never ventured beyond the Big Band era, solidifying their status as Grown-Ups™ in my eyes. They’d been around; they knew all the ropes.

Even now, as a parent myself, I still can’t shake that feeling of being an impostor. Do my kids really see me as a grown-up? I still have no clue how to change a tire or what the Federal Reserve actually does. The workings of the boiler are still a mystery, as is much of world history.

Yet, there’s my high school yearbook from the ‘80s. It’s not black and white, but it looks undeniably dated. The ‘80s music I jam to now is as old as Tommy Dorsey was when I was a kid. My pre-Internet childhood seems as unimaginable to my children as my parents’ pre-television lives were to me. I have no idea what clothes are cool for teen girls these days. It just kind of happens—more whimpers, no bangs.

But then my son looks up from his book and asks, “Mom, what does ‘mum’s the word’ mean?” and I realize I can answer confidently. I know how to drive, order books online, and whip up dinner. I’ve been around; I know the ropes.

Recently, when my younger son was home sick, I gently wiped his forehead and rubbed his back. Then, out came the words I remember my own mother saying to me. They were the words that always reassured me because grown-ups seem to have it all figured out. “Don’t worry. Mama’s going to take care of you,” I cooed softly.

I saw him relax in response. He doesn’t need to know that I sometimes feel like I’m just winging it. I realized my mom probably felt the same way, and maybe that’s the most grown-up realization of all.

This article was originally published on March 2, 2015.

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Summary

The author reflects on the transition to adulthood, grappling with the feelings of being stuck between childhood and full-fledged maturity. Through humorous anecdotes and personal revelations, she discovers that the essence of being a grown-up often feels like a façade, yet it’s defined by the moments of care and confidence we offer to those we love.