Playing at Being an Adult

To borrow a phrase from my travelling companion, this week has very much felt like I am playing at being an adult. Other friends have expressed similarly sentiments to me as well, for example my housemate who noted how bizarre it was that we are ‘surrounded by adults’ in our block of flats.

I am, on the outside, an adult. I’ve got facial hair, I do my own laundry, and my use of the phrase ‘back in my day’ is becoming progressively less ironic. I’ve got a job, a flat and a car, everything my teenage self thought was necessary to acquire in order to reach adulthood. But something still doesn’t quite feel right.

Perhaps it’s just that doing all those things is still terrifying, or that the outcomes are rarely easy or enjoyable as I had once naively assumed they would be. Perhaps this feeling will abate with time and I will mature into a real adult, or perhaps it won’t and I will feel like an oversized child until I die.

I have been wondering if this inner childlike nature is something worth holding onto, or something holding me back. On one hand, retaining a sense of idealism and constant wonder seems like it would pave the way to a happier existence, but on the other hand there might be a certain lack of confidence and willing to commit that comes with that which could hold me back.

For now at least, I am happy to live as a child on the inside, gently bumbling around New York City with my head perpetually craned towards the sky, always in search of the next pizza place.