So, I May Not Be Adulting Quite So Hard… Yet

adult pic

Earlier today I wrote a post patting myself on the back for how well I have progressed into the scary world of adulting. For the most part. On most days. Well, some days. Sometimes. I’m working on it.

I thought, since the list ended up not being quite as long as I had hoped when I started said blog, that maybe I should get really real and lay down the way that I’m not adulting quite so hard. You know, maybe the things that I need to work on… at some point.

So let’s get real, shall we?

I own more onesies than real pajamas. Rainbow striped zebra onesies, Hello Kitty onesies, bunny footy onesies. The list goes ones. I love them. They are everything.

Speaking of Hello Kitty. Ummm… yeah. I won’t go there.

I have a three foot tall pile of clean clothes on my dresser at any given moment because I loathe (loathe!) putting away clean clothes. I mean, honestly, does anyone actually enjoy putting away laundry? If you do you’re either a liar or a sick fuck.

I don’t clean the following items in my house: windows, baseboards, window sills, vents or ceiling fans. Yes, I know I’m disgusting. No, I’m not going to do anything about it anytime soon. I would rather pay someone to deal with these things than actually deal with them myself.

I have a pile of shoes in front of my closet that any goat would assume was built for their climbing pleasure. I literally have to kick them out of the way to walk into my room. What is wrong with me? I can’t really say.

I squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube. I’m a monster.  Hence the reason my husband has his own tube of toothpaste.

I don’t own matching silverware. I am in my forties and can’t seem to hold on a full set of spoons and forks. Where does it go? I think it goes where the “other” socks go. The socks and silverware are having a party somewhere and none of us are invited.

Remember the plants I told you about? Sometimes I forget to water them until they are hanging over the side of their pots. It’s like a child telling you they are hungry; they perk right back up once you feed them. My mom knew exactly what kind of plants I wouldn’t kill. Thank you, Mom.

My nightstand drawer looks strikingly similar to my childhood closet. If I don’t know where to put something it (obviously) belongs in said drawer.

I watch Aladdin. And Hercules. And Beauty and The Beast. Alone. Regularly. My youngest child is sixteen.

I lose and/or forget shit all. of. The. Time. I truly do mean all of the time. If it weren’t for my husband I would be walking in circles barefooted looking for my car keys that I lost in my purse that is also missing while panicking because I forgot to take my meds and I can’t find my shoes.

I refuse to answer the phone. Okay, so not 100% of the time, but pretty fucking close. We’ll say 99%. I’ll answer if it’s my mom or my aunt or my husband or my sister. Okay, or my kids because you know, they’re kind of important and all. Pretty much, though, if you want to reach me send me a message or a text. I’m really good at those.

As you can tell, my list of reasons that I may not be hard-core adulting just yet is a little longer than the list of reasons that I’m on a “hey, I’m rockin’ this adulting thang” level. For today, I’m down with it. I look it like this: What’s a few chin hairs when you’ve got a rainbow-striped zebra onesie to rock out in ?

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What illness taught me about how truly warped we all are

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