I learned yesterday that I’m not a grownup. Having a job doesn’t make me a grownup. Neither does turning 30. Or owning a car. Or whatever external indicators that prove that one is, indeed, an adult, and not just a lady-child who owns an inordinate amount of wrinkle cream.
Yesterday, Joe and I realized that we hadn’t gotten our mail in a while, even though my paycheck was in the box. Joe went downstairs to get it and did not return with a pile of mail. Instead, he returned with a slip that said we had to pick up our mail at the post office because our box was full.
The slip was dated October 30. Which means that our mailbox was full by October 30. Which means that I have no idea when the last time we checked our mail was.
… of course there were previous signs of my immaturity before the Great Mail Drought of ’09. I can’t do my own taxes. I have forgotten to pay my credit card bill 3 times this year, and I surely have no clue about calculating its interest. We have no fresh produce in the house. And there’s an empty California Pizza Kitchen bag sitting on my dining room table. Next to a Boston Market bag. Next to a Bumble & Bumble bag from about 2 weeks ago.
It’s 1 p.m., and I still haven’t carted my behind to the post office. Instead, I’m blogging about going to the post office.
Because, apparently, I’m 13 years old.