I’ve often been called a late bloomer. While I’ve always resented that label, everyone who called me that had a fair point: I refuse to sign up for direct deposit, roughly 60% of my exes told me that watching me skateboard in the 7/11 parking lot and considering that a date night was the main reason for breaking up with me, and the undying angst I’ve felt against this unfair world has been my default mood since I was 12-years-old.
But all of that changed a few days ago when I was in line to buy stamps at the post office and mail my water bill. In that moment the unbridled rage towards any and all authority dissipated and was replaced by a warm blanket of adulthood malaise.
Talk about growth! Seriously, it’s such a load off my shoulders to not wake up every day and curse my parents for bringing me into this world just to experience the collapse of Western civilization. For example, today I spent 20 minutes comparing laundry detergents while feeling like I should’ve followed my passion for abstract art.
I partially blame the delay on my genetic predisposition to being angry at the world due to still losing baby teeth up until my first year of college. Or perhaps it’s the fact that I haven’t had kids, which I’ve heard kills teen angst real quick. After all, there aren’t many opportunities to listen to My Chemical Romance anymore when Cocomelon takes over your Spotify algorithm.
It’s a weird sensation to look in the mirror and wonder if this is the same person who once stole twelve CDs from FYE and pushed the security guard into the fountain, especially once I realized all of those bands are now going on 20th-anniversary tours of those very albums. And yes, I’m going to pay $70 plus fees for balcony seats. My poor knees!
It’s much different from a midlife crisis, because this is permanent. From here on out it’s nothing but circling back on Zoom until I retire (or die at my desk), buying a pill organizer or two, and not recognizing 85% of today’s music. All while the existential threat of World War 3 hangs over us like a proverbial Sword of Damocles, no less! If all that doesn’t elicit a sense of never-ending dread, then I really need to grow up.
Well, better late than never. At least hating cops is an all-ages affair.