Recently, I discovered the transformative powers of reverse adulting, where for one night, I was a child, and it helped me to adult.
My friends and I are at the point where earnest seriousness is the norm. Two close friends have recently had their first child (congratulations, kents), and another pair are in search of their second house after flipping the first for a tidy profit (congratulations, kents). In Game of Life parlance, I might be coming up short on what Milton Bradley prefigures I should possess by this part of the board, but I’ve reconciled that those things mean nothing, unless they mean something.
Only if it is worthwhile, is it worth doing – and those who place whatever plastic pin next to you in your plastic mobile, en route to the plastic job, gleaned from your timely diploma from Hasbro U, yes, may get you to the end faster, but much like the board game version, the real Game of Life is only played once.
I know this, because I’m an adult. But, I also know that being an adult can be, well, not good.
I’ve recently become more aware of the concept of “adulting” where pedestrian accomplishments, and everyday challenges bested, beget a victorious update via social media, or are dropped into regular conversation. And rightfully so. Besting life’s crushing needless challenges should be celebrated. Be it finally slaying the cruel beast named Outlook Mail Merge, or tunnelling through the endless faff of taxation paperwork
Even if Gen Y is derided as lazy slackers, slackers or lazy, we’re dealing with a spate of issues that the older generations have not – completely unaffordable housing without university education, the marginalising effect in the workplace of said university education and the evils of video buffering.
For us, sometimes it’s easier to not adult. And for that we seek no awards, no judgement. We owe no explanation, because it’s our time to not be us anymore. And to prove this point, I’m writing this in a onesie that has a robot on it.
Last weekend, I suffered from an infantile regression. In the morning after said regression, I felt guilt (I’ve made many mistakes, but they were adult mistakes), like I did something wrong, something not that my years, title or the bags under my eyes would deem court.
The location of said regression started at the Greek Club near my house. It was, after all, a work night, so a quick libation, some catchups and hopefully hummus would be the menu of destruction. I absolutely would not be going out, and the location reflected this. Because I’m an adult.
And go out, we did not. We did, however, sneak spirits into a Scottish-American clown-based family eatery. You know the one. Upon wobbling beyond the point of no return, there was that juvenile rush of doing something for the first time, compounded by doing something wrong as we stepped on the jackbooted clown shoe of society’s rules. But with it, there was also a meta rush, where we knew that none of us would successfully be able to explain our way out of it, because we should, and do, know better.
While we didn’t start a scene (we’re adults) we spent the time leeching the free wi-fi and ruining my faithfully coloured in Rembrandtian crayon effects with crude depictions of the male form (read: penis).
Beyond that revelry, we sought out the only thing open at 11pm. K-Mart. Incidentally, we had to purchase a gift for a one-year-old’s birthday/christening, so we turned ourselves loose upon the sleeping body of impulse retail.
And yes, as our meandering aimless circle around the aisles dropped us off at the onesie rack, the wild scene of three people in their thirties trying on various sleepwear manufactured for children brought down the legislative hammer of the security guard. But there is something to be said for the benefits of reverse adulting.
I’m no psychologist nor sociologist, but I know what feels good on my inside bits. And if that takes the form of striding out of a shopping centre dressed as a robot, then beep-bop-bip, it does compute.
As a colleague pointed out to me earlier, a crucial part of being an adult is realising that everyone knows as little as you do. Which I agree with. But I feel it’s also letting the child inside you jump on your bed (knowing that you’ll have to remake it soon after).