THERE is a reason everything related to the word ‘adult’ is insidious and oozing with menace.
It’s because adulthood is a minefield of traps just waiting to ensnare you.
For years, we can’t wait to grow up. As children, all games emulate what could be when we’re older.
Toys are designed as cute replicas of the real world.
Everything is geared towards preparing us for adulthood…
‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘You can wear that when you’re a grown up.’
‘You can drink that when you’re a grown up.’
‘You can smoke that when you’re a grown up.’
So, then you grow up. And it’s fun for a while.
You’re carefree and good looking with the benefit of age on your side. You can drink. You can smoke.
You can eat chocolate for dinner. You can swear in front of your parents – or near them at the very least.
And then you get that first payslip. And it’s glorious. So many zeros!
You’re heading for the door, off to buy that flatscreen, only to trip over another pile of envelopes. The bills.
Somehow, the amount you owe is more than what’s reflected on your payslip. And what is a SARS?
So, you sit down and start working out a budget – talk about a fun way to spend a Saturday evening – and you find a way to come out with R50 for groceries, clothes and entertainment.
No matter. You lived off Salticracks and box wine throughout your student days, you can do it again.
And you find a way to scrape together a bit of happiness on your meagre earnings, despite having studied for four years (who said a BA degree was a good idea?).
And then they start coming in. The unexpected financial demands. Your car needs a new exhaust. Your computer needs a battery. Your cat needs a new kidney.
It’s just never-ending. And with every payment, that dream holiday in Croatia gets further away. But no matter, there’s still Salticracks and box wine.
So you go to the bank to get a loan and you’re handed a pile of documents to sign with print, so fine, you’re going to have to take out another loan for laser eye surgery after reading them.
But you don’t read them – nobody does – you just sign them and cry. Then off you go to buy your new exhaust, battery and kidney. And there are more documents to sign. And more tears.
The years pass. You’ve dyed your hair a shade of magenta to cover the grey. Your body, once almost appealing in a bikini, is a mess of dimples and folds thanks to you beloved children.
You’re rocking in some spectacles that the sales’ woman said made you look like a sexy librarian, but actually make you look like a sexy troll at best. And you’ve almost paid off that bank loan taken out a decade ago.
But no worries. You’re 34. Adulthood is almost over and you’ll be a geriatric in no time.
Plus, there’s always box wine.
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