Post-Adolescent Pains

By Silvia Josipovic

In three months I turn twenty-one and leave behind the remnants of my adolescence – a period which is supposed to involve awkward sexual encounters, a dabble in narcotics, and rock n roll-inspired rebellion, but was instead a perpetual cycle of spinsterhood, drunken YouTubingand New Order.

As I farewell seven underwhelming years, I can’t help but feel severely under-prepared for adulthood. Sure, I’ve taken to drinking wine and discussing Gillard’s incompetence as Prime Minister, but what good is that when I still spend a majority of my time swooning over rock-stars and giggling at the word ‘gynie’?

Adulthood is serious. Adults have careers. They get married and have babies. They host dinner parties for bosses, read the Financial Review, and power-walk.

How do you prepare for that?
“What?”
“I said, how do you prepare for adulthood?”
[Brief silence followed by furious lashing of PlayStation controller].

“I don’t have time for this, I’m busy.”
Albeit, a fourteen-year-old isn’t exactly a vessel of wisdom where life lessons are concerned, so I turned to the person I’ve known to be an adult longest.
“I thought they covered that in school? Well you could learn to cook … pick up some more chores – I was cleaning the whole house by myself when I was your age, you know. Actually the weeds are coming through the fake lawn again and I need you to …”
I left the room at this point, so whether my mother had any actual advice, we’ll never know.

At the end of my wits, I resorted to the only constant in my life: the internet.
Take a sewing class … or a simple home repair class at your local hardware store. Learn to play tennis. Don’t ever have sex without two forms of birth control. Also, read Carolyn Hax’s advice column for young adults. Good luck!!!
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, why don’t you just slap me in slacks and seat me before Dancing with the Stars re-runs?

Thus far, adulthood sounds terrible. Routine, responsibilities, rules … why would you want any of that? But then I am reminded of its perks. I can finally refer to everyone under the age of 16 as 12, and everyone under the age of 20 as 16. “Kids these days,” I’ll lament. My skin will return to its former porcelain glory. I can move out and my friends will frequent my house in a Seinfeld-esque fashion. I’ll strut around, Chanel purse in hand (because adults are rich, am I right?) and I can damn well do what I please. Spend an afternoon twerking to Dizzee Rascal’s Bassline Junkie? Why not? Empty out the contents of my pantry at 1am and pretend to host my own cooking show? TRYAND STOP ME.

Yes. The more I think about it, the more I can do adulthood.

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