Several months ago, while walking through the warehouse, I passed two Directors discussing the latest news around a pallet of cereal. They waved. I waved. They said "Hello." I said "Hello." Being a friendly organization, I offered up that I was, "Just taking my morning constitution." They both froze, an awkward look on their face. I didn't think anything of it, smiled and walked away.
You see, at some point when I was in my early adolescence, I read Pride and Prejudice. Using my adept comprehension skills (which a SAT score within the 92nd percentile supports), I deduced that a morning constitution was a walk. With the combination of having to leave the home to go to an outhouse and being referenced as good for your health, the possibility for a different interpretation hadn't even entered my mind. I realized my error in a very public fashion – when one of the Directors offered up my comment in a roast at my one-year anniversary celebration. There, in front of everyone, I was labeled the girl that liked to talk about poo. Somehow I didn't think that was going to help my attempts to act more mature at work. I knew at that point, this transition into adulthood was not going to be graceful.
I'm a well-rounded, fairly intelligent lady. I have been driving for almost a decade. I have voted in two presidential elections. I have been drinking legally for years. Yes, technically I am an adult and sometimes I believe that. Other times I feel like the girl dressing up in her mother's heels wearing too much eye shadow. My wardrobe reflects this dissonance as I weave back and forth between jeans and gym shoes and an assemblage of business casual attire with pumps. This mismatch of apparel only repeats itself in other realms – trying to decorate my room in a house with four other roommates so that it doesn't feel like the sorority dorm room that it probably is; trying to be in a serious relationship without marriage being the next step; trying to interact with my parents on an adult level when sometimes I just want them to tell me that it will all be OK.
Most of the time, I struggle to fake it because even basic etiquette requires know-how that I just don't know how. When's the appropriate time to hand out your business card? How do I make that first comment count when schmoozing? How do I throw dinner parties for those yet-to-be-made adult friends in an apartment that doesn't have a dining or living room? And forget trying to understand what I want to do with my life, why everyone around me is talking about buying a home and why all of a sudden I throw up in the morning after a night of drinking. My wise roommate told me that I was going through my second adolescence. That would explain my outbreak of acne.
Everyone tells me they've been through the tumultuous 20s and that it's rough. That doesn't make it any easier as I go through it now. I'm a planner. My mother told me that I didn't start walking until I was much older because when I did decide to walk, I wanted to be sure that I wouldn't fall. My whole life I've successfully followed the process: anticipate, plan, execute. No one ever told me that this doesn't work when you don't know what the next step is. So, I'm left with a choice – to stand in one place, safe from the unknown or to venture out into the darkness knowing that I'm going to stumble along the way.
