Rated M for So Totally Mature

Have you heard of "Peter Pan Syndrome"?

After extensive online research (which may or may not have included a killer deal on green tights), I've diagnosed myself with it.

Only...

It seems that most of its carriers are volunteers; those with a longing to retain child-like perspective & innocence; to be free of the heavy, mundane responsibilities we bind ourselves with until we're convinced that having fun is just too much work.

I'm not a volunteer in this. Not only do I look younger than my biological age "recommends" I appear, but...

I don't like houndstooth.

There. I said it. May the sweet, iconic Coco Chanel not roll over in her grave upon hearing that declaration.

So not ok.

But it doesn't stop there. There are a plethora of patterns and colors that I don't prefer to wear. And fashionable vegetables that I don't care to subject my palate to. And books that would give off a certain stench of superiority and culture sitting on my coffee table and/or nightstand that I would just as soon use to keep those same pieces from wobbling.

If we're going to wear patterns, can they at least be sparkly?
And if we're going to throw around pretentious words like "palate", can we at least throw something with sprinkles into it?
And if I'm going to have anything sitting on my coffee table, it's going to be a coaster...or used as one. Because if I'm reading something, it's because I love it, I want it around me, and maybe I just want to laugh my ass off all by myself in the quiet foyer of a hotel. (Or in Kiwi Loco because...frozen yogurt.)

I rarely "feel" like an adult. How does one feeeeeeel that, anyway? Does it feel like angry eyebrows, the word "No", and horse-sized multi-vitamins? Because green tights are sounding pretty good right now.

And that's just it. I "feel" like an adult when I get upset with my son. No wonder why I don't like the sound of it...because I don't like the sound of me.

I also feel like an adult when I say no to an alcoholic beverage. That magical 21st birthday has come & gone and, with it, the superficial luster of being able to do what only ADULTS are legally permitted to do.

(The multi-vitamins aren't an issue because I get the gummy, fruit-flavored ones and they. are. awesome.)

I go to work 5 days out of the week, fulfilling my role as a productive member of society. I am living the adult life*. (*Note: not synonymous with the word "dream".) I am making a living to provide for myself and the 3 other little bodies-whom-I-love-more-than-words that live with me. Quite adult-like, if you ask me.

But come see me at work sometime. Or drop by our home. I can usually be found in spectacular jewel tones, maybe even 5 at one time. Or sparkles/glitter/sequins/the like. Or pretty, glistening jewelry of varying colors and facets. Or bedazzled sandals. Or red heels. Or "the best pirate boots ever", to quote my sweet, engineer-minded boss. And I force frumpy, crumpled, very adult-ish contractors and engineers into hilarious, sarcastic conversations - because it's fun. Sure, I've blown a few crabby heads back upon opening the door because that's-a-lot-of-enthusiasm-coming-at-me-at-9:00-in-the-morning-and-you'd-be-dead-if-it-weren't-for-the-promise-of-retirement-and-coffee.

Poor guys. Heh.

I guess I just don't want "growing up" to be so lame. I feel a very mature metaphor coming on...something about a flower or a tree...yes...and how the roots are the sign of its maturity, but the parts we admire, photograph, and make into computer wallpaper are the blooms and leaves.

So, yes, make generally good, healthy decisions (gummy vitamins!), but bloom. And let the green tights hide the "adult" varicose veins roots.