I Hereby Resign From Adulthood

Dear Adulthood,
I’d like to inform you of my resignation, effective immediately. I know it’s customary for an employee to give at least two weeks notice, but I’m done. Spent. Like some day-old sourdough, I’m toast. You might as well slap some butter on me and sprinkle me with cinnamon sugar. Have you tried toast like that? You really should. Much better than jam.

I’m not going to tell you this gig hasn’t been fun at times. Oh, it has. There was the voting. That was cool, up until this election. Buying fireworks was a big highlight. Legal booze purchases, those were fun. Not to mention getting my first credit card and being able to pierce anything I wanted without parental consent. All great perks of the job! For those rewards, I extend my eternal gratitude.

The problem is, there are just too many negatives that detract from all the fun you bring. Jury duty, for one. I mean, what in the holy hell is that? Drive downtown at the crack of dawn, sit in a room with dozens of strangers, who often times have questionable personal hygiene, only to be picked for some lame civil suit involving an elderly widow and her landlord with a bad combover? Is that the best you’ve got, adulthood? Come on!

Don’t even get me started on the minutiae of paperwork. Initial here. Sign there. The kids bring it home from school in stacks. You’re filling it out by the ream at every doctor’s appointment. You want to buy a house? Good luck. Your hand is going to fall off before you get done putting your John Hancock on at least 85,000 sheets of the stuff. New license, paperwork. Rent an apartment, paperwork. Yoga class, paperwork. Could you please fill out and sign this form so I don’t get sued if you die while in child’s pose?

The salary you’re giving me is also a bone of contention. Well, it’s not so much the salary, but all the costs that rack up while I’m working for you. First, you need a car to get to and from the job. That car needs registration and insurance and, heaven forbid, you get in one tiny fender bender. Your insurance goes sky high! And, for the record, I was not following that guy too closely. He slammed on his brakes for no damn reason. Skittish people should not be driving in the left lane. That’s all I’m saying.

Then, you’ve got to get a house and that’s not cheap. You start out renting, but once you’ve been promoted to a certain level at the company you’re ready to buy. The minute you buy your house something inevitably goes wrong. In the years I owned a home I had to repair light fixtures, water heaters, washers, dishwashers, leaky faucets, air conditioners, busted pipes, toilets, holes in the wall. Raccoons busted through our screened in porch no less than 5 times. 5 times! Never trust a raccoon. Oh, they look all cute and cuddly, but they’re out to get you. They will destroy you.

And, your body just ends up betraying you. You start making audible sighs when you get up from chairs. Your knees pop, your back aches, and you can no longer see far away or close up. You have a tiny little optical sweet spot. Deviate your gaze from that spot by even a half inch and you’re blind. The only benefit from being visually impaired is that you aren’t able to see all the crepey neck skin, crow’s feet, and gray hair you’ve got. Everyone else sees it, though. Oh, they see it alright, like a Kardashian chasing their 15 minutes of fame. Laser focus, baby.

Your vanity isn’t the only thing skewered when adulthood ravages your body, your wallet is too. You can get health insurance, if you’re lucky, but even then you end up pouring every last spare cent into upkeep. You need to pay for blood draws to check cholesterol levels, scans to view your crumbling bones. When you get old enough you have to pay to have your boobs squished between two plates or get a camera shoved up your hind end. Some of us have to have both done. And they call women the weaker sex.

When I break it all down for you like this, you’ve got to admit that quitting is the only option I have. I’m going back to a life with no bills, a time when food was always in the fridge through what appeared to be sheer magic, and days when all I needed was a Schwinn 10-speed to get me where I needed to go. I’m returning to boundless energy during the day and 8-10 hours of deep, restful, uninterrupted sleep at night. Back to my youth, where perfect vision and peak bone mass await me. There are no forms to fill out where I’m going!

I have a distinct feeling you won’t be needing me. There are always countless eager youngins chomping at the bit to take my place and they’re perfect for the job. They’re more than ready to take on the role and too naive to realize the job is a total trap. But, if you find yourself short of staff and you’re desperate for help, just throw a tin can telephone up to the very top of the tallest branch of a tree. I’ll be there, barefoot, eating whatever snack I could shove in my pockets, reading my dogeared copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory without the aid of glasses and without a care in the world.

Sincerely,

Christine

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