Confessions of a Forty-Eight-Year-Old Nineteen-Year-Old

            This one’s tricky.

            In one of my early therapy sessions, I told my therapist that I though I was a kid trapped in an old fart’s body.  I knew that I had aged, learned, gained wisdom, raised kids, was part of a marriage, was a homeowner and a taxpayer and all of that stuff, but I still felt like I was 19 or so. 

            Nineteen.

            He was puzzled.  He didn’t quite get what I was saying, and to be fair, it is tough to translate into words.

            My daughter tried to describe a friends’ parents to me.  She told me some details about their interests, their jobs, etc.  She also said that we wouldn’t click with them if we met them.

            “Because they’re grown-ups?” I asked her.

            “Yeah,” she said.

            She wasn’t criticizing.  She knew very well the difference between my wife and I and other parents out there.  We have the years and the experience, the knowledge, and the wrinkles to prove it, but we’ve never been comfortable in the adult world.  My wife has her own reasons, but I have a few theories about mine.  I want to be clear:  I’m not talking about forever remaining ‘young at heart’.  That’s a sweet frame of mind and it’s pleasant to meet someone with the courage to embody that attitude. My condition, however, is being just as uncertain and freaked out about everything is the adult world as when you first entered it.  The callus of confidence built up over decades is not there.  Besides knowing how to change a tire and what the best raincoat brand is, I don’t feel the growth I should at this point.  Every adult I meet, including those ten years younger than me, feels like they are on a different plane.  I am a child in a grown-up suit, hoping no one will press me with questions because I’ve been bullshitting the entire time. That’s what I mean.

 All that aside, I also believe that being an adult is a fucking snooze.

            Confession time.  Ready?  I am forty-eight years old.  I have never been drunk.  Tipsy on wine once, maybe.  Never drunk.  I’ve never been high, either. I’ve never been to a party with beer in red Solo cups or a bar with shots lined up or whatever the hell.  I’ve never partied. I’ve never played a round of golf. I’ve never been to a karaoke bar.   I’ve never been on a date. I think Las Vegas is a shithole. I don’t have (non-fictional) stories to tell. 

            For years, I felt shame about all of these things.  For a Vegas buffet’s worth of reasons, I never engaged in any of this shit that most adults have experienced.  I was scared or weak or riddled with anxiety.  But, one day, not too long ago, I stopped.  I realized that given the opportunity, I wouldn’t do this shit anyway.  I don’t want to.  It’s not me.  Just like me hating mint chocolate-chip ice cream, it’s not my thing.  So, I acknowledged all of that and kept going.  You can’t spend time in your life thinking about all the things that you’re not.  It sounds cliché, but clichés endure because there are nuggets of truth tucked inside their candy shell.

Sure, I have reasons. Shitty parenting, alcoholism, being poor, raising myself, having kids super-early, full of anxiety and depression, sadness, high blood pressure… Some wasn’t my fault, most of it was.  All of these things, as long as I accept them, are part of me forever.  I believe that one of the byproducts of this is that I will never fit into the prescribed definition of an adult.  I’ll forever remain my own hybrid version, constantly trying to understand the other grown-ups out there, with their boring refried jokes and the retelling of stories with which I can’t relate. I can still be respectful even though I can’t bridge the gap of understanding. Let’s face it, if I haven’t done it by forty-eight, I probably won’t ever do it.