Apparently I’m the Adult

Something has happened to me.

I don’t know if it happened the exact day I turned 43 or if it’s been slowly developing for years, but I’ve recently become very aware of it.

I have significantly less patience for bullshit than I used to.

And I’m not talking about the important stuff.

I’m talking about tiny, completely insignificant things that have absolutely no business irritating me as much as they do.

Someone stops their shopping cart sideways in the middle of the aisle?

Immediate rage.

My phone rings when I wasn’t expecting a call?

Who died?

Someone texts me “hey” and then waits for me to respond before telling me what they actually want?

JUST SAY THE THING

Apparently this is who I am now.

And I’m starting to think people don’t actually get crankier as they get older.

Maybe we’ve just been alive long enough to decide we’ve had enough.

Future Kristen Is Way More Fun Than Current Kristen

I love making plans.

Dinner?

Absolutely.

Drinks?

Yes.

Concert?

I’m there.

When we’re making these plans three weeks in advance, I am the most social woman alive.

Then the day arrives.

And suddenly I’m looking at my calendar like:

Who scheduled this?

Oh.

Me.

That bitch.

Because future Kristen is extremely social.

Future Kristen wants to go everywhere.

Future Kristen apparently doesn’t understand that Current Kristen will eventually have to shower, do her hair, figure out what to wear and actually leave the house.

And Current Kristen has a schedule.

I eat dinner at 5:30.

Not “around 5:30.”

5:30.

By 8:00, I’m mentally beginning to shut down operations.

By 9:00, pajamas are looking extremely attractive.

And by 10:00?

I want to be IN BED.

Not getting ready for bed.

Not thinking about going to bed.

In it.

So when someone suggests dinner at 7:30?

Seven-thirty?

For dinner?

What country are we in?

By 7:30, dinner should be fully digested and I should be deciding whether it’s too early to get into bed.

Spoiler:

It isn’t.

The ridiculous part is that once I actually go out, I have a great time.

Ever. Single. Time.

Which means I learn absolutely nothing.

Three days later:

“Want to do something this Saturday?”

YES!

And the cycle continues.

Dating at 43 is Going Really Well

And then there’s dating.

I am still attempting it.

Technically.

The conversations usually go something like this:

Him: Hey.

Me: Hey!

Him: Hi Beautiful.

Thank you.

We’ve really covered a lot of ground here.

Or sometimes they skip a few steps and go straight to:

“Hey gorgeous.”

Again, thank you.

Still don’t know your last name, but we’re making progress.

And then there’s my personal favorite:

“Where have you been all my life.”

Sir.

Please.

You don’t even know me.

For all you know, I’ve spent your entire life being an absolute nightmare.

😂

But dating-app men apparently operate at two speeds:

Complete stranger

and

I’ve been searching for you my entire life.

There is no middle.

And somehow, despite apparently spending their entire lives searching for me…

they disappear.

Gone.

No warning.

No explanation.

Nothing.

One minute:

“Where have you been all my life?”

Three days later:

Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Apparently the answer was:

Right here.

You left.

😂

And that’s the part I find facinating.

Because YOU approached ME.

You told me I was beautiful.

You told me I was gorgeous.

You wanted to know where I’d been all your life.

I answered.

And apparently that was enough interaction for you.

Thank you for stopping by.

Have a safe flight back to the spirit world.

At this point, I’m not even offerended.

I’m impressed.

The speed at which a grown man can go from:

“You’re gorgeous 😍”

to

literally ceasing to exist

should be studied by scientists.

And then, inevitably, another one appears.

“Hey beautiful.”

Ah.

A new contestant has entered the chat.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting at home with my dogs, in my pajamas, knowing I have to be in bed by 10, thinking:

Maybe this one will be different.

Narrator:

He was not.

Apparently, I’m still dating at 43.

And by “dating”, I mean having the same four message conversation with different men until they become paranormal activity.

😂

Apparently I Have a Second Job Now

While the men of New Jersey are busy disappearing into the spirit world, my sixteen-year-old has also apparently decided he doesn’t need me anymore.

Well…

Except for transportation.

Parker is busy.

He has school.

He works a lot.

He has his own life.

Which means I don’t see him nearly as much as I used to.

But don’t worry.

We still have quality time.

In my car.

Because apparently after sixteen years of parenting, I’ve been promoted to Uber driver.

Five starts.

No tips.

Terrible hours.

And management is exhausted.

I’ll pick him up from work, and that’s usua;;y when I get the updates.

We talk on the 6 minute drive home. I hear about work, school, whatever happened that day.

Then we get home.

He eats dinner.

He showers.

And depending on the day and what time it is, he either heads to the man cave to play video games or goes to bed.

That’s our evening.

Sometimes I look at him and think:

I raised you for sixteen years and now I basically have visitation rights.

😂

I know this is what’s supposed to happen.

He’s growing up.

He’s working.

He’s becoming independent.

I WANT him to become independent.

I just have one small request.

Could the independence perhaps happen during more convenient business hours?

Because some nights, when every cell in my 43-year-old body is telling me the day is over, I have to put my shoes back on, grab my keys and go pick up my passenger.

And the most annoying part?

I actually like it.

Because sometimes those drives home are when we talk the most.

So apparently motherhood at sixteen is barely seeing your child all day, complaining that you have to go back to pick him up, and then secretly being happy because you’ve got him trapped in the car with you for 6 minutes.

I’ll take it.

But I’m still accepting tips.

Thankfully, I Still Have Children Who Need Me

Because while my actual child has become an independent working man who barely needs me anymore…

the dogs have gone in the opposite direction.

They need staff.

Specifically, me.

They have an entire bucket of toys.

Every day, they apparently look at this bucket and think:

Absolutely not.

One toy comes out.

Then another.

Then another.

Until every single toy they own is scattered across the floor.

Do they play with them all?

Of course not.

That would at least provide some explanation.

No.

Apparently the object is simply to empty the bucket.

Then they walk away.

And I pick everything up.

So they can do it again.

It’s basically canine enrichment.

For them.

For me, it’s unpaid housekeeping.

I’ll finish putting everything away and within minutes one of them heads back toward the bucket.

And I’m watching her like:

Don’t.

Don’t you dare.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

She slowly grabs a toy while starring right at me.

You little bitch.

😂

At this point, I’m convinced they think I’m their maid.

And honestly?

They’re not wrong.

I feed them.

Clean up after them.

Buy them toys.

Pick up the toys.

Wash their blankets.

Open doors for them.

And receive absolutely no financial contribution toward the household.

Parker grew up and became independent.

Apparently the universe looked at me and said:

Don’t worry. We’ll send replacements.

So now I live with two furry toddlers who employ me as housekeeping.

At least they’re cute.

That’s really carrying them at this point.

Apparently Every Company Wants a Relationship With Me Too

And apparently dating apps aren’t the only place where people come on a little strong.

I can’t buy anything anymore without someone wanting my personal information.

A little box pops up:

GET 20% OFF! ENTER YOUR EMAIL!

Okay.

I like 20% off.

Here’s my email.

Then:

ENTER YOUR PHONE NUMBER TO UNLOCK YOUR DISCOUNT!

Wait.

That wasn’t the deal.

You said email.

Why do yu need my phone number?

We’re not dating.

But apparently I want the 20% badly enough that I give it to them.

Huge mistake.

Because now we’re in a relationnship.

8:02 a.m.

WE MISS YOU!

You don’t miss me.

I bought something from you yesterday.

11:47 a.m.

KRISTEN SOMETHING BIG IS COMING 👀

I don’t care.

I’m at work.

3:16 p.m.

LAST CHANCE!!!

For WHAT?

Why is everything an emergency?

RUN!

DON’T WALK!

ENDS TONIGHT!

YOU DON”T WANT TO MISS THIS!

Ma’am or Sir.

Its 15% off a sweater.

We’re going to survive.

Then you try to unsubscribe.

“Are you sure you want to leave?”

YES.

“We’ll miss you.”

Again.

You don’t know me.

And somehow every company I’ve purchased one item from now has direct access to my phone.

Clothes.

Makeup.

Dog stuff.

Some random website I ordered something from three years ago.

Everybody is checking in.

Meanwhile, the man who asked me where I’d been all his life?

Gone.

Apparently the only committed relationships available to me at 43 are with retailers.

And those bitches are CLINGY.

😂

Apparently I’ve Become One of Those Adults

And maybe that’s the weirdest part about being 43.

Things that would’ve sounded incredibly boring to younger me are genuinely exciting now.

A Friday night with absolutely nothing planned?

Luxury.

Fresh sheets?

Amazing.

Finding something I regularly buy on sale?

Huge.

Someone cancels plans after I’ve already gotten dressed and done my hair?

Absolutely not.

We’re going.

Someone cancels plans before I’ve started getting ready?

I have never loved you more.

And I have opinions now.

About pillows.

Parking.

Noise levels in restaurants.

Restaurant reservation times.

And grocery-store etiquette.

Especially grocery-store etiquette.

Because if you stop your cart sideways in the middle of the aisle where you decided which pasta sauce speaks to you spiritually…

MOVE.

Take your time.

Read the labels.

Compare prices.

Follow your heart.

Just pull over.

We’re all trying to get home.

Some of us have dinner at 5:30.

So Apparently This Is 43

I don’t think I’m actually getting crankier.

I prefer to think I’m becoming more discerning.

That sounds better.

I know what I like.

I know what I don’t like.

I know I’d like to find someone.

I also know that apparently finding him involved talking to a lot of ghosts first.

I know I love making plans.

I just don’t particularly enjoy the part where the day arrives and I’m expected to attend them.

I know I miss my teenager when he’s busy.

And then complain when my second job as his Uber driver interferes with my bedtime.

I know my dogs adore me

Mostly because I provide food, shelter, and complementary housekeeping.

And I’ve accepted that my preferred social schedule now revolves around a 5:30 dinner and 10:00 bedtime.

I’m 43.

I’m still fun.

I’m still going out.

I’m still attempting to date.

I’m just doing all of those things with significantly less tolerance for nonsense and a much earlier preferred start time.

Maybe getting older really does make you wiser.

Maybe you stop sweating the small stuff.

Maybe you develop patience.

Maybe you finally find inner peace.

I wouldn’t know.

Because someone just stopped their shopping cart sideways in the middle of the aisle.

MOVE. YOUR. CART.

Apparently I’m the adult.

And apparently I’ve also become one of those adults I used to think were boring.

Turns out they weren’t boring.

They were tired, comfortable, and had shit to do in the morning.

And frankly?

I’m with them… 😂