Recently, while wandering through a department store, a purse caught my attention. As I swung it over my shoulder and caught my reflection in the mirror, I felt a wave of horror wash over me: it was undeniably a bag for an elderly woman. I nearly tossed it back onto the shelf as if it had sprouted legs and chased me.
So this is how it happens, I mused. Not with a dramatic revelation, but rather through subtle, unassuming purchases. Before I knew it, my candy jars would be overflowing with Werther’s Originals, and my pockets would be filled with crumpled tissues. Next, I’d be buying “slacks” and insisting on taking home the leftover bread from my early dinners out.
Having just celebrated my 46th birthday, I find myself firmly entrenched in middle age. I have all the hallmarks of a true adult: I own property, pay my taxes, and (mostly) remember to floss and schedule my yearly health screenings. I’ve even received a prescription for progressive lenses, which serves as a stark reminder that I may never achieve a Nobel Prize or an Olympic gold. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m no longer a peer to the contestants on shows like American Idol, but rather their parents—those middle-aged individuals who linger in the background. And so, the gradual shift continues with more muted whimpers than explosive bangs.
Despite the undeniable evidence of age in the form of gray hairs, my primary reaction is one of disbelief: THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING! I still feel like a kid at heart.
“I keep expecting my parents to come home,” I admitted to a friend.
The realization of my adult status began in my late twenties, while I was still single and living in a small apartment in a vibrant neighborhood. A close friend and her new spouse had recently purchased their first home, complete with a spacious yard and grown-up furniture. One evening, as we lingered over coffee, I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” they asked.
“I’m just waiting for the parents to come home,” I replied.
As the youngest of five, youth defined much of my identity. “Oh, you’re the baby!” people would say, which carried a weight of expectation. Watching my older brothers navigate adulthood felt like peering through a window, eager to grow up and take my place. I longed to leave behind the constraints of youth and seize the privileges of age. Yet, I failed to realize that, like a dog chasing its tail, I’d never truly catch up, and in my rush, I might miss the beauty of the present.
Growing up with older parents only deepened this perception. Their high school yearbooks from the 1940s seemed ancient, and their musical tastes never strayed far from the Big Band era. This added to their Grownup™ status, as they appeared to be wise and experienced in the ways of the world.
As a parent myself, the feeling of being an imposter lingers. Do my children truly see me as an adult? I still can’t change a tire or fully grasp the intricacies of the Federal Reserve. The mechanics of our heating system are still a mystery, and my grasp on world history is shaky at best.
Yet, here I am with my own yearbook from the 1980s, a snapshot of a time that feels both nostalgic and absurdly dated to my kids. The music I hear on the radio now is as old to them as the tunes of Tommy Dorsey were to me as a child. My own pre-Internet childhood seems as foreign to them as my parents’ pre-television experiences did to me. I’m at a loss regarding what teenage girls consider fashionable today. More whimpers, no bangs. It just happens without warning.
But then, my son looks up from his book and asks, “Mom, what does ‘mum’s the word’ mean?” In that moment, I realize I can respond with complete confidence. I can drive a car, order groceries online, and conjure up meals out of thin air. Just like my parents before me, I’ve learned to navigate the challenges of life.
Not long ago, while caring for my younger son who was feeling ill, I instinctively said the very words my mother once comforted me with: “Don’t worry. Mama’s going to take care of you.” I saw the relief wash over him. He doesn’t need to know that I sometimes feel like I’m winging it. It dawned on me that my own mother likely felt the same way, just as her mother did. Perhaps this realization is the essence of what it means to be grown-up after all.
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Summary
In a humorous reflection on adulthood, the author recounts the moment of nearly purchasing an old lady purse and the realization of her middle-aged status. With echoes of her past and the lingering feeling of being an imposter as a parent, she navigates the complexities of growing older while expressing a deep-seated belief in her capability to care for her children.