I would really like to be a responsible young woman. I would. But I have (repeatedly) discovered that it is important for me not to grossly misjudge my capacity for responsibility. Over the years, this capacity has grown, but the results of going overboard thinking-that-i-can-somehow-magically-grow-up-overnight have not changed.
Normally, my capacity is exceeded gradually, through the accumulation of simple, daily tasks:
… Okay, I’m breathing and beating my heart. Awesome.
Hey look, I’m getting something done!
I’M SUCCESSFUL AND ONTOP OF THE WORLD!
Wait, I have to go to the bank to get quarters for laundry? … What am I, some sort of wizard?
… I did three things yesterday! I’m supposed to keep doing things?! …
So, a few times a year, I spontaneously decide that I’m ready to be a real adult. I don’t know why I decide this; it always ends terribly for me. But, I do it anyway. I sit myself down and tell myself that I’m going to start cleaning the house every day and paying my bills on time and replying to emails before my inbox reaches quadruple digits. Schedules are drafted. Day-planners are purchased. I stock up on fancy food because I’m also planning on morphing into a master chef and actually cooking instead of just eating Cool Ranch Doritos for dinner every night. I prepare for my new life as an adult like some people prepare for the apocalypse.
The first day or two of my plans usually goes okay. For a little while, I actually feel grown-up and responsible. I strut around with my head held high, looking the other responsible people in the eye with that knowing glance that says “I understand. I’m responsible now too. Just look at my groceries.”
At some point, I start feeling self-congratulatory.
This is a mistake.
I begin to feel like I’ve accomplished my goals. It’s like I think that adulthood is something that can be earned like a trophy in one monumental burst of effort, and then admired and coveted for the rest of one’s life.
What usually ends up happening is that I completely wear myself out. Thinking that I’ve earned it, I give myself permission to slack off for a while and recover. Since I’ve exceeded my capacity for responsibility in such a dramatic fashion, I end up needing to take more recovery time than usual. (This is when the guilt spiral starts).
At some point in this endlessly spiraling disaster, I am forced to throw all of my energy into trying to be an adult again, just to dig myself out of the pit I’ve fallen into. The problem is that I enter this round of attempted adulthood already burnt out from the last round. I can’t not fail … but it always ends the same way. Slumped and haggard, I contemplate the seemingly endless tasks ahead of me.
And then, suddenly, it’s 4:13am. I’ve got Cool Ranch Doritos crumbs on my shirt, mindlessly laughing at some hilarious internet blog, with no self-respect whatsoever.
I’ll try again tomorrow.