The other night, I had two dreams. In the first one, I was Lee Harvey Oswald. In the second one, I was a hausfrau. Is it surprising that I was more scared by the second dream?
Granted, any dream where you shoot the 35th President of the United States of America is suggestive of deep psychological issues that are better off left unconfronted. Compared to that, a dream in which you’re wearing curlers and a nightgown and wielding a rolling pin ought to be a psychoanalytical walk in the park. Bit it’s not. Because there’s something absolutely terrifying about a dream that holds a glimmer of truth in it. A dream that’s more like a mirror than a mirage. So I guess what I’m saying is that while I’ll probably never work at a Texas schoolbook depository, I think I might be becoming domesticated. And I’m worried.
Now, before I go too much further, I just want to say this outright: this isn’t about me worrying about becoming too feminine; this has nothing to do with gender roles. This has to do with me resembling my parents; this has to do with fighting that deep desire to watch Law & Order reruns while eating ice cream. This has to do with me being completely lame.
Take, for example, last weekend. I refused to go out one night because it was too windy. Too windy? I’ll admit it’s a new low for me. It wasn’t that I was too tired. It wasn’t that I had work to do. It wasn’t even because I had something better to do. I didn’t leave my house because it was too windy outside. There used to be a time when I wasn’t fazed about being trapped on top a burning mountain in the middle of Scotland when a midnight Druid Solstice festival went horribly awry. Now I’m afraid of the wind. I’m making lovely progress.
So what do I do instead of going out? I’d like to say I engage in debauchery while in the comfort of my own home. That I play blistering guitar solos at full volume. Or make moonshine and sell it to desperate frosh. But usually I drink coffee and read novels that have won literary prizes. I make shopping lists. I do jigsaw puzzles centered around a Robin Hood theme and then get upset when there’s a piece missing. I look up recipes on-line, print out the ones I like, and put them in the special envelope I keep on my refrigerator for that express purpose. I play a lot of Sudoku, and desperately try to beat my fastest time. I get angry when I discover that someone has eaten all the cheese I bought the day before. And when I do go out of the house, it’s usually just to walk down the street to where there’s a TV with cable so that I can watch the food network. What is happening to me?
I’m deathly afraid I might be verging on adulthood. And not the really good parts of adulthood. I’m not talking about being a twenty-something; I’m not talking about being young, vibrant, and successful. I’m talking about adulthood in that boring sense. The kind of adulthood that’s about standing in line at the post office, cutting coupons, having intermittent lower back pain.
It sounds sad coming from a 22-year-old, but I just don’t have the energy I used to. And I don’t think I’m alone here either. This column used to be about all the stupid crap I would get myself into in the course of an average week. Things used to happen to me. And I used to write about them. Nowadays, I have to resort to writing about various pseudo-sociological musings I’ve stolen from conversations from my friends without giving them any credit. I’ve simply lost the desire to be crazy. Or worse than that, I’ve become terribly boring. And it’s all happened so terribly soon.
Some may call this phenomenon the onset of maturity. They’re probably right, but I don’t want to admit it yet. I really just want to blame it all on living in a house. I tell myself that this is what happens when you buy appliances; when you learn the difference between a couch and a love seat; when you start going to the thrift store not for the clothes, but for the cheap retro flatware and sturdy furniture. This is what happens when you get a mailbox that doesn’t require a key. So maybe it’s not me, maybe it’s just my environment. Nurture, not nature. And I’m not domestic; it’s just that everything around me is. It’s the house’s fault. I am not boring yet.
It’s not that I’m unnaturally opposed to growing up. It’s just that I don’t want to grow up like that. I’m not ready to settle yet. I’m not ready to be normal. I still have delusions of grandeur; I’m still hoping for something better. I’m still hoping to be lucky. To be different. And maybe, to be happy. There’s a time for compromise, but I don’t want it to be now. I can have this life, but I don’t want to settle for it yet. It’s too early to give up on my dreams. I figure that can wait until I’m 30. Minimum.
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