Today has been one of those days...the type of days that make me wonder what I have accomplished in my life, and think not much actually.
This year I turn 28 years old. Fortunately, there is nothing overly significant about turning 28. I can already vote and drink; I've made it past the quarter century mark (25 was a surprisingly rough birthday for me); I'm not quite to the next decade; and being 40 is still a bit in the distance.
It's hard for me come to terms with the fact that I'm not 21 any more. I know I'm getting older, but I don't feel like any more of an adult that I did in my teens. I live alone, no pets that I can even call my own. I own a mini-futon, not even a real couch. My bed consists of a mattress and box-spring on the floor. My kitchen table is a folding card table, generally covered in paperwork, bits of mail, and a pop can or two. I still have clothes on my bedroom floor waiting to find their new home, folded laundry on my living room floor, waiting to be put away, next to my home phone and cable. I do own a TV but my "TV Stand" is decidedly college dorm. (The last was the observations of M last weekend as we cuddled up before falling asleep, an honest time for anyone.)
Wow, I sound like I need stuff to make me feel like an adult - hm, this may be the case. It's stuff that make a place feel like home. Pictures hanging on the wall, a couch with a blanket draped over the arm, pots and pans in cupboards (or wherever pots and pans should go), a pantry. Which just brought the realization: I want a home. I want to come home to something more than a Netflix movie and my laptop.
I want feel like a real adult, not someone floating through life. Somehow I always pictured myself having it all figured out by this point - or at least be on some sort of path.
Growing up is the pits.
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