I Need an Adultier Adult

Being an adult human is too hard, so I’d like to quit, please.

Hey Wilding Out peeps,

My brain and body decided to play potato today. They decided to not function and turned into a mushy mash. I couldn’t get the piece I was working on finished to a level I thought was worthy of you all. It happens.

So instead, I pulled this piece from the archive. It was one of the first things I published here, and only 38 subscribers (that’s just under 1% of my subs) have seen it. If you’ve seen it—congrats on being one of my OG fans!! To you wonderful people, I’m sorry for this re-run, but I’ll have something fresh and new tomorrow.

I’ve been meaning to repost it, as I really loved this piece and was always a little bummed that so few people on Substack had the chance to read it.

To those who haven’t seen it, *does the Men In Black flashy thing*, this is brand new 😆.

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I Need an Adultier Adult

Image by wayhomestudio on Freepik

Psst, hey you. Yeah, you. Umm, do you know what you’re doing? Do any of us know what we’re doing? I know I’m not the only one who went from being a child to a grownup baby with arthritis and taxes.

I can’t be the only one impostering through adulthood.

After all, it’s hard being a person.

I still don’t feel like a grownup, even though I’m middle-aged and approaching decrepitude at an alarming pace.

Looking back, I remember being a kid who would look up at the adults and think, ‘Gee, being an adult looks fun!’. It’s not. That was a trap. I thought when I was an adult, I’d have all the money (not some, all), and I’d get to go out with my friends and have fun adventures daily.

But now, I’m pretty sure I was richer when I had my allowance in my pocket, and I had more adventures with friends when I was seven. Adventuring is tiring, and I wake up pre-exhausted.

Grow up, they said. It’s fun, they said.

Liars.

Explaining Adulting to Child Me

If I could go back in time and tell seven-year-old me what adulting was really like, it would be this. It’s like one giant game of dodgeball, but it’s just you on the court. On the other side of the court are 12 giants, and instead of balls, they’re throwing electricity bills and wrenches.

Or like losing your mom in the grocery store, forever.

Oh, and I’d tell myself that all that worrying you’ve been doing about quicksand — yeah, it won’t be the problem you think it is in adulthood.

Nothing is like you think it is. All the punishments you hate now are sad presents you give to yourself as an adult. These include naps, bath time, going to bed early, leaving the party early, and staying home entirely. And the worst one of all—I like getting socks as gifts now. The laundry machine is eating all of mine.

Spankings took a weird adulty twist.

Making friends gets harder. Nobody will be your best friend forever just because you like Pokemon anymore. To make friends, you’ll have to leave the house, which you don’t want to do because it’s far too peopley out there.

And nobody will ever ask you again if you can run fast in your new shoes.

One final thing, be nice to your mother. You know when you told her, ‘Don’t tell me what to do — I’m fourteen now!’? That was a gigantic lie. In four years, you’ll move out and call her for literally everything. Like how much aspirin to take, who your doctor is, and “How do I taxes?”

Image by wayhomestudio on Freepik

Someday, you’ll need an adult. Then you’ll realize that you are one, but you need a better one. Mom and Dad will always be older adults, therefore making them adultier adults. That’s what I need now: an adultier adult.

One day, you’ll realize that your favorite memory from childhood is not paying bills.

Fake It Til You Make It (Lasts Forever)

If you’re still here, I’m assuming you think adulthood is a dirty, filthy, shenanigans-filled trap, too. I’ll also assume we’re all just faking being adults — since this absolute clusterfuck shitshow of a job didn’t come with an instructions manual.

We’re just supposed to know things now.

I don’t even know basic things, like how the electricity stays in the wall.

I’m not even sure if there’s a correct amount of toothpaste I’m supposed to be using. Depending on how it comes out of that infernal tube, I’m brushing my teeth with either a ‘dollop’ or one ‘whoopsie’ worth of toothpaste. My brain can’t even remember the brand while I’m at the store….Colgate Anticavity Antigravity Anti-tuna-tartar paste?

I just figured out that the numbers on the toaster denote time, not—as I had previously thought—the level of toastiness.

I always run out of money before I run out of month. I’m so tired from adulting that my bills come more times a month than I do. On the rare occasion that I have a few shekels left in my account at the end of the month — I just sit there wondering what the fuck I forgot to pay. And the only place I’m ‘making it rain’ is at the dollar store.

Turns out, being an adult is out of my price range.

I Quit

Somebody, please direct me to Adulting’s HR office — I’d like to turn in my two weeks’ notice. I hate this job, I never applied, and the hours and benefits suck. The healthcare plan is seemingly useless; I threw out my back sneezing last week. The time before that, I did it while sleeping. I’m one giant fart away from total paralysis.

I'd like to speak to the manager of the person who signed me up for the adulting lifetime subscription. They erroneously signed me up for the premium package, which comes with higher bills and more chores. If I can’t cancel completely and get a refund, I’d at least downgrade to the teenager package.

For all of the reasons above, I quit.

Consider this my formal resignation from the job of adulthood. I no longer wish to adult, and have decided on a new career package — becoming a professional cozy human burrito.

Image by user18526052 on Freepik

Contribute to the Robin-Needs-An-Adult Fund

Life is expensive and the bill companies won’t accept my explanation that I’m now a human burrito.

So, I’d absolutely love your support at any level that’s comfortable for you…

$1 per month (or $10/year)
$2 per month (or $20/year)
$3 per month (or $30/year)
$4 per month (or $40/year)
$5 per month (or $50/year) (full price because I’d be dumb not to include it)

Don’t have any money? Don’t worry, me neither, and I still love you.