When it comes to oldness, I would never describe myself as being on either of the far ends of that scale. However, I was at the grocery store recently and I had one of those surreal moments of being slapped in the face with all of my 31 years of living. It was a simple thing really: I was at the deli counter buying sliced ham and the lady asked me if the thickness was okay or if I wanted it to be thinner. My brain jumped out of my head, looked at the situation and said: "Why is she asking me this?" It turned around and noticed that there was no one behind me with more wisdom about the appropriate girth of cold cuts and wondered: "How on earth am I old enough to be deciding on the thickness of deli meat?" I know, I know you are all saying: What's the big deal, it's just ham! But when I think of myself as still being in the wee years of adulthood to be faced with such a crucial decision was a little daunting.
One of my dear friends was telling me how her little daughter often asks her to play house with her and how in her brain she replies to her little cherub: I am playing house. Every day.
I say a fat 'Amen' to that.
It's strange, though, that in this playhouse, mysteriously the carpets only get cleaned if I make them that way, and the children have snotty noses more often than not, and the battery in the car dies and someone has to be responsible to fix it, and dinner doesn't just magically appear on the table, and celluloids on the sprinkler system fail causing my lovelies to droop (I really have no idea what a celluloid is, that's just what A told me is the problem with the lawn dying, hmm, no water, strange how things turn brown), and the numbers on the microwave clock are getting smaller and smaller from the vantage point of the couch, and important decisions such as the meatiness of my ham sandwiches must be decided before I leave Safeway!
How? How did it happen ladies and gentleman? How did adulthood sneak up and become my responsibility?