Reaching 17 didn’t really bring many of the freedoms or responsibilities I had imagined as a six year old
Ask any kid six or under what age they think you are. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a flattering “17” and if you’re completely ancient to them you might get a “22”. Little kids think anyone who operates outside the confines of their parents’ supervision is decrepit, so 17 to them indicates complete financial freedom and agency. Twenty-two is probably the highest number they can comprehend. To them, age doesn’t matter as long as you can do whatever you want.
When I was a little kid, I thought that adults were dumdums. Here they were, living in a world where the possibilities were endless, and they weren’t taking advantage of it by eating pancakes for every single meal. I thought that my own adulthood would come with its own endless supply of pancakes. I thought receiving mail would be the highlight of every day. I thought frogspawn would play a more pivotal role, given it was such a huge feature of my childhood. I thought earthquakes, quicksand and volcanoes were things I was going to have to formulate safety plans for. I thought I would finally have enough money to buy Billy Roll for my lunch. I would buy endless Lego. I would buy a Mr Frosty for myself. I would have my own garden hose and would dance through its spray any god damn time I wanted.
Reaching 17 didn’t really bring many of the freedoms or responsibilities I had imagined as a six year old. Having a locker in secondary school wasn’t as glamorous as I had built it up to be in my head, and there were no boys waiting beside it after Irish class at my all-girls convent school. At 22 I wasn’t eating pancakes for every meal because I was in the grip of Weight Watchers and an obsession with my weight and my body. And as the years have gone on, I’ve discovered that many of the exciting “adult” pursuits I had imagined aren’t as shiny now that I’m seeing them up close. Mail rarely even comes because everything’s gone paperless, and anything I do get is addressed to the woman who lived here three years ago (Louise, if you’re reading, it’s time for your smear. I opened the letter by mistake). Lego costs a fortune. The Mr Frosty machine is a disappointment, and my parents were right to never buy me one. I don’t have a garden or an outside tap so frolicking in a rainbow-hued hose spray is out. Anyway, it would be very wasteful and bad for the environment.
As Millennials overtake Boomers as the most embarrassing generation — the most recent focus of slagging by the younger Gen Z is the “Millennial pause”, which is that excruciating two seconds that pass in a smartphone video while a 30-something is checking to make sure they’re recording themselves — I’m reminded of the phrase “adulting”. Turning “adult” into a verb “to adult” and then back into a noun, “adulting” happened somewhere in the 2010s as a way to describe the grown-up tasks facing Millennials who felt wholly unprepared. The Boomers were blamed for creating the conditions that have made it impossible for many to start a family or buy a house within the expected time frame, and so many Millennials have felt stuck in this limbo between being teenagers and “real” grown-ups. The concept of “adulting” is now seen as infantilising and mortifying, but it was a product of being the first generation to grow up with the internet, where memes and relatability drove clicks, and employment prospects were limited to content factories or short-term contracts. It’s no wonder adulthood feels like a disappointment.
When I was young, “cost of living” was just a grim grown-up phrase blaring out of the radio in the kitchen between ads about liver fluke and calf scour medication. “Cost of living” is such a depressing phrase, because the basics of living are so expensive, never mind luxuries such as beanbags or Lego. Beanbags are something I thought would feature heavily in adulthood, but have you seen the price of them? Adults still get spots. Chocolate bars get smaller yet somehow cost more. Therapy doesn’t include lying on a chaise longue as promised by TV shows. Adults are just as irresponsible and unreliable as kids, sometimes worse. There is so much admin. So many forms. So many gatekeepers. So many things to insure. So many taxes to pay. So much sleep you’re not getting. As a child I thought I would never shackle myself to an adult bedtime. Now I go to bed early to lie there fretting about the eight hours I’m definitely not getting.
If there’s a silver lining, and lord knows we need one, it’s socks. Socks as a child? A terrible gift. Boring, borderline offensive. Socks as an adult? A gratefully received top-tier present. And oooh, they’re from M&S? Stop it, you’re spoiling me. I’ll put them on right now because we’re never turning the heating on again. Now that’s adulting.