Every culture has its own path to adulthood. It could be a ritual, the end of education, or even mandated by law. Adulthood is a terrifying ultimatum for children of all ages - a strict rule that says “You are now an adult. You must follow the rules. You must act mature. You must take responsibility.” I shudder every time I think about it.
I’ve realized now, however, that my path to adulthood is unique. I have searched far and wide for what Robert Frost would call “the road less traveled by,” and I think I’ve finally reached the end of my journey without walking across hot coals or the ruling of a grand jury (and I’m fairly surprised that the latter didn’t happen).
My leap into adulthood was prompted by the fact that I can no longer relate to children born after the year 2000.
They think Star Wars: A New Hope is boring and Revenge of the Sith is the best.
The best video game system has a controller with more than five buttons.
“You can get books at the library?”
“I stay up until two in the morning sometimes.”
They have cell phones and never talk on them, only text.
They think the Twilight series is the best thing to happen since sliced bread.
None of them eat sliced bread. Just Lunchables and Uncrustables. Actually, most food has the suffix “-ables” now. I call them “disgustables.”
But the thing that bothers me most of all? Why, that’s the fact that they look at me like I have four heads when I ask,
“Hey, you guys ever just feel like digging a hole?”
I mean, come on. That’s an integral part of childhood - sitting in the dirt with a stick or a rock, digging a fucking hole. You think you can reach China. You find all kinds of stuff. Worms, cool rocks, more sticks, dirt. And the best part? You get all dirty.
Why isn’t that a part of childhood anymore?
This morning, ny economics professor was talking about something (I wasn’t exactly paying attention) and he started using this extended metaphor.
He asked us to pretend we have never seen a cow before. Then he asked if he took bits of cow - the bones, the meat, the milk, the fat - and laid them individually on the floor, would we know it’s a cow?
But when you drive along the highway and see farms with cows atop the hill, you know it’s a cow. It moos, it eats, it stands aound, it shits. It shits a lot. All those little individual bits of cow are working together to make a living thing.
His metaphor got me thinking - if we weren’t just bits of cow, would we still be in this predicament we are now? Would this country cease to be individual pieces of flesh and bone and come together to be an entity that stands proudly atop a hill?
As partisan as we are, we can’t afford to become more divided. If we keep following the path we’re on, eventually we’ll be put through the meat grinder in some Upton Sinclair yarn.
My Sundays are usually reserved for lazy activities; sleeping in, playing a video game, thumbing through a book, watching the Sunday news shows, taking a quiet stroll through a park, nursing the irreconcilable hangover that’s been brewing for two nights, etc. Today was different.
At around 2 in the afternoon, I heard a knock on my door, something completely innocent and common. When I opened my door, I was greeted by two girls whom I have never met. I stood puzzled as to what was going on. They introduced themselves and asked me if I went to school here. I live in a dorm. Red flag number one. Then they asked if I was a freshman. I live in a well-known upperclassman dorm. Red flag number two. They started asking me what my major was and if I have taken any communication-based classes. I said I was an English major and that I’m actually concentrating in communications, so yes, I have taken classes in that subject.
Then they started telling me about something. I couldn’t hear or understand them. All I did was nod and smile. Then they said something about a survey and a contest and whipped out a piece of laminated paper. They asked me to pick out a magazine that I like and handed me the paper. I said that I liked Ski Magazine.
They said something about putting a sticker on my door, none of which I understood, and then asked if I had a table they could write on. I pointed to the table behind them in the common room, and they pulled out what looked like a checkbook. I recognized the paper as a receipt and said, “woah, woah, woah, am I paying for this? You guys said it was a survey.” I proceeded to tell them that I refused to buy anything from them, and that they could promptly go fuck themselves.
If a man says “make me a sandwich” and you say “fuck you, make it yourself,” you’re not a real woman.
If a man says “make me a sandwich” and you say “yes, dear,” you’re still not a real woman.
If a man says “make me a sandwich” and you say “yes, dear,” poison the meat, then serve it to him smiling, you’re a real woman.
