I had one of those moments today where being “adult” really hit me like a warm breeze in the face. In fact, it was the warm breeze that aged me. Feeling it through the open window of my ’91 Toyota Corolla while driving home, I was fixated on the idea that I should get some washing done.
That’s right, ladies and gentle readers, I was keen to get my washing into God’s equivalent of a dryer on steroids; the warm Australian breeze heralding summer. I know there are some of you out there young enough to love the hot air for other reasons. Perhaps you are a surfer and are already riding the waves instead of reading this. Maybe you are flying a kite, it’s tail whipping freely uninhibited in it’s fluidity, and you are catching this post while you try to Instagram your Poppin-esque moment. Perhaps, like younger me, you would simply hide out, read a book (Obernewtyn anyone?) or game (GTA5?) in the fanned safety of four walls.
The accumulation of all the experiences you had prior to having the desire to have any experiences.
The decision you make not to impulse buy a Marvel Hero Face & Body Set so you are able to pay the electricity bill.
The way a 1995 baby scares you by turning 18.
The surrounding terror when the 2000 babies are lining up beside you for a midnight screening of a “Mature Audiences Only” film.
The thought that you could possibly be mature, even if only in someone else’s eyes.
I watch myself through someone else’s eyes worry about the dust particles in the wind resting on my Spiderman boxers.
I am mature enough to set up an internal clothesline catching the cross breeze in my house, dust free.
But it might take a bit more growing up before I get rid of my Spidey stuff…