Scrappy Little Nobody(67)
When I was nine, I bought a mini-fridge for my bedroom with my allowance money. It was fifty bucks at Walmart and I saved like a champ for my big purchase. I thought it would make me feel like I was living in a little apartment of my own. Instead, it sent me into a panic about all the things I would need to be a true adult: a microwave, a toaster, wooden hangers, a coffee table, coffee table books, a little jar for cotton balls, a bike with hand brakes even though the pedal-backward-brake seemed perfectly fine to me, and a mop. (For our wall-to-wall carpeting? What was wrong with me?)
I returned the mini-fridge the next day. I felt like I either had to become a perfect adult human all at once, or give up and stay a kid. I let my anxiety get the better of me and chose to stick my head in the sand. I’m still doing battle with this anxiety and it’s left me as a bit of a man-child. I know I’m not a man, but “woman-child” doesn’t sound quite right. “Girl-baby”? “Lady-tyke”? I’m getting into creepy porno territory, so let’s stick with man-child. You know what I mean anyway.
With every birthday, I have stupidly expected to feel different only to discover that I’m still me: tragically lazy and childish. Every birthday, I think this is the year I won’t drown myself in store-bought cookie dough when I’m anxious about something. And every year I’m wrong.
Even as I write this I’m thinking, Next year, though, it’ll be better. The book will be done, I won’t schedule myself so thin. I’ll have enough time off to teach myself not to get overwhelmed. And I really believe it! It’s pathetic!
The truth is, I just want to be a man-child for another three months. Perpetually. Can you spot the tiny flaw in this mind-set? I have no doubt that I’ll need the help of a very skilled therapist to break this cycle, but I keep hoping it will correct itself. Every now and then I test the waters of self-improvement with some practical changes to see how far I can go without succumbing to anxiety. Just small things at first.
I stopped buying fancy underwear. Easy. I’ve bought so much of it in my life, and it turns out guys are way more excited about naked boobs than they are about boobs in a lacy red bra. Fancy bras are uncomfortable and look lumpy under anything I’d want to wear on a date anyway. Also, every time I’ve worn fancy lingerie, an awkward dance ensues where I try to pause in between the removal of the shirt and the removal of the bra, so that the gentleman might admire me. It’s even worse with jeans and underwear. Trying to keep your adorable knickers on when peeling off skinny jeans is like trying to get a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup out of the wrapper without the bottom layer of chocolate coming off. I’ve come to my senses and it’s white cotton comfort all the way. Bam. That wasn’t so bad.
I’m also working on becoming the kind of adult who does not engage in stupid, dangerous situations, even if that makes me look uncool. You know those videos on YouTube of a flash flood where someone is way too close to the water and they’re standing there like, Wow, that water is rising fast. I’ll just take a few more pictures and I’ll totally be able to get out of here before I’m in any jeopardy, and then they’re DEAD! I want to be the person who runs away from the flash flood like a little bitch and lives to tell the tale. I am not going to be the person who shows off by leaning too far into the dolphin enclosure and then gets raped to death by dolphins (Google it, nerds). I’m going to be the person who tells her friends not to get too close to the dolphins, gets made fun of, and says “I told you so” at their funerals. I used to be the idiot who would climb to the fifth floor of a construction site at two a.m. just for the story. Now the most reckless thing I do is ignore emails marked urgent. It’s a real rush.
I’m trying to make big decisions without asking “an adult.” Because that’s me. I’m the adult. For ten years I drove Charlie, my scrappy little used Toyota. When it came time to buy a new car, I decided to do it on my own. I’m financially stable, I am a homeowner, I vote, but I’ll admit, it felt weird not consulting my parents. I’d bought Charlie when I was a teenager—I’d used my own money, but my mom was with me the whole time. I had no idea how to buy a car completely on my own. So I brought Aubrey Plaza. Aubrey’s got kind of a father-figure vibe, so she gave me a certain confidence walking into the dealership.
Aubrey was accidentally helpful in the negotiation process, because she’s batshit crazy. I was getting frustrated with the cliché trappings of the process and kept asking, “Do we really need to do this? You’re going through the motions of being a sleazy used-car salesman, but couldn’t we just talk like two normal humans?” Aubrey sat in the corner and occasionally interjected, “My uncle owns a dealership across town and we could just go there. He’s also in the mafia,” without looking up from her phone. We were less “good cop/bad cop” and more “cop who hates negotiating/cop having a psychotic break.” The technique was effective regardless.
I went home and called my mom to tell her I’d bought a car. Maybe that kind of thing is newsworthy enough to warrant a call to your mom anyway, but my motivation was that of a child who’d learned to tie her shoe. What’s the point of being so independent if you don’t get a gold star from your mother for being such a big girl! Maybe the next time I buy a car I’ll wait a week to call her. If my current track record holds up, I have until 2024 to develop that kind of restraint.