Being a Real Person

I don't know why no one ever tells you this, but being a real person sucks balls sometimes.

They tell you high school is the best time of your life, which is a total lie, because high school is horrifying. You couldn't pay me to go back in time and feel like everyone's staring at my zits, wondering if there's food in my braces, and getting pit stains whenever I saw a hot guy. No. Thanks.

Then they tell you college is the best time of your life and, boy, are they right.

But, they never tell you anything about being a real person. Damn, I feel so disillusioned.

When you're a real person you have bills. And lots of them. You have to get up early, every day. You have to cook for yourself. You have to buy your own clothes, pay for your own heat, and lock your doors at night. But the biggest bummer of all, especially in a city like Seattle, is rent. Yay, paycheck! Oh, wait, that's right, my whole paycheck is going to pay for that measley roof over my head. nbd. I'll buy a new bra next paycheck. Alas...

I've been a real person for about four months now and, though I certainly resent it and everything it stands for, I'm starting to come to terms with my real personhood. I mean, there are some perks. I get to burn all the candles I want and drink all the wine I want and decorate however I want. BUT, there's still that scary thing 20 years down the road that my mom's been going through for about, oh, 12 years now.

And that is the mid-life crisis.

She came to see me a few weeks ago, my mom. While I totally dig the whole "I'm a working woman, I make my own cash, and my own decisions!" shtick, she met me at Nordstrom with a new addition--HAIR EXTENTIONS. Now, it's not like my mom's never done this before, but this time they were halfway down her back and coupled with clothes tighter than mine and skin as dark as a Jamaican's. I. was. mortified.

Here I am, the dowdy-looking SAT-teacher and part-time magazine intern who can't afford a new pair of boots to save her life, and up walks my 52-year-old mother in a HOT PINK, cleavage-bearing t-shirt and hair extentions. I mean, come on. Shouldn't I be the hot one at this point? And, yet, I am not surprised. The hair extentions and gnarly tan can't even compete with the year she got a boob job, a face-lift, two tattoos, and her belly-button pierced. I wish I were kidding. I mean, I love her and everything, and she can do what she wants, but at this point, I'm only slightly embarrassed because of her. When it comes down to it, what I'm more afraid of is my future. If my mom can't seem to come to terms with getting older, rebelling against this crazy real-personhood to such an extreme, what does that say for my genetics? I'm surely predisposed to crazy, but I'd like to know the likelihood of inheritance.

But that's years and years away. For now, it's time to scamper off to work so I can hand my paycheck to the landlord. Is this all it's about?