I don’t feel old. I don’t feel even a little bit old….inside. In fact, at work, I dress
to the nines in bargain adult clothes with heels and a white coat to avoid looking too young. I feel like I look fifteen, and have a complex that my patients are internally questioning how it’s possible I have a dental degree (despite the deepening age lines in my very prominent forehead). When I check out at CVS, I feel weird if I catch the cashier glancing at my wedding band, and am most certain she is questioning if I had a shotgun wedding or starred on “Engaged and Underage” (despite the advancing crows feet I’ve decided to politely ignore).
So, I don’t feel old. However, in the past 6 months of my life I’ve been going through the motions of being old—and I’m obviously not mature enough for it. First of all, to begin on a positive note, here are some things I do like about pretending to be an adult in no particular order:
1. Having a garage door opener (insert grin with thought of avoiding snow on my car).
2. Sending in a deposit for a dog.
3. Decorating. This will be more fun when I have money and I’ll get beyond one bedroom.
4. Hanging out with Chris. Puke in your mouth if you will, but it’s really fun.
5. Entertaining. Our guest bedroom has a revolving door, and though it necessitates washing sheets multiple times per week, we always have someone new to hang out with. More often than not this turns into 2am dance parties and serves as a reminder that I am not old. Here are a few highlights from the past month:
So back to going through the motions. Here are some reasons why I don’t like being sort of an adult:
3. Caring if everything is clean. Point of neuroticism #1: I am obsessive about getting the dust bunnies under the bed.
4. Learning about electricians, plumbers, house inspectors, etc. This is boring and I’m not quite ready for it.
5. Telling people
Chris is a I’m a homeowner. This indicates to others that you are definitely old.
6. Calling Chris my husband. This is not a knock on him in any way. Seriously. But, Chris’s cousin in middle school told him he looks older since he got married, which is exactly why I don’t like it.
7. Decorating. I know, this appeared in above mentioned “likes”, but this also makes me feel old. I’ve found that when I go to my old fav TJMaxx, I’m spending more time in the home section than I am hunting down shoes. Gross.
So, where does this neuroticism come in? Everywhere. I’ve noticed with this new life I accepted that my sanity is going by the wayside and I am becoming NEUROTIC. In the past twenty-four hours of my life I can adequately describe this to you. I got out of work at 9PM last night. The parking lot to the new half of the office is finally done, so I had parked my car in the new lot all the way in the back by the dumpster, as instructed (no “Dr. Lavigne’s Parking” for me). Walking to my car at 9PM I had my keys spread between my fingers, ready to poke out the eyeballs of the first woman-slayer that tried to take me from behind. I wasn’t sure if he was behind the dumpster or behind the tree line, but I knew he was there, waiting. I work in Coventry, RI. For those of you that don’t know Coventry, it’s no Detroit or North-Omaha. It’s a family town with family neighborhoods and most likely no history of heinous crimes. However, in my twisted little head, I’ve become quite certain that I’m the first target and I’m going to put little Coventry on the map.
To my surprise, last night was not the night of my attack. In fact, I made it to my car and home quite safely.
Chris is in Chicago this week so I came home to an empty house. Since I wasn’t mugged or beaten in the parking lot, there was obviously a plotted burglary to take place in the house that evening. I slept with my computer lighting the room and my keys in hand. I had one latch of the window next to the bed unlocked, and one locked. This was genius in my mind, because if the perpetrator came through the window, it was locked just enough that he would have to get creative to get in. If I heard someone in the house from down the hall, I had only one latch to get to before I could hop out the window and get away. Absolutely genius. You thought I was kidding about becoming neurotic, but I’m serious. Very serious.
There’s really no point in sharing this with you guys, other than as a therapeutic way to get through the realization that I’m sort of old, and I’m really neurotic. Here’s to hoping it’s a phase. If it’s not, there are always Benzos and Botox to get me through the day, right? In the meantime, the alarm install guy is here, and I need to call my husband to find out where the boxes are being installed. In other words, back to my neurotic, semi-adult life.
And for those of you that made it through my rant without falling asleep, here’s an adorable picture of the Lasalle girls looking fabulous the night before Thanksgiving. As Katie would say, pretty kitties.