Being an adult is basically never ever being able to “find the printer” until you die…
We’ve always suspected that Rage Against the Machine weren’t protesting against the American justice system….hmmmm….maybe they just were really annoyed with their printer.
Being an adult is people recommending you see their osteopath until you die.
Why are people so compulsively share-y about osteopaths. Why can’t they be share-y about builders? Or financial advisers? Or sample sales? Why must they persistently press their osteopath’s number into our hands. Why the good Samaritan act about this thing only? Why does everyone think that their osteopath is the best osteopath. I feel nervous about recommending one because what if it goes wrong. I remember when someone pressed their cranio-sacral osteopath’s number in my hands to help with sleep and he cancelled my sleep altogether. I shall always resent that person. I shall never forget.
Being an adult is being repeatedly ordered to wear sunscreen until you die.
It’s so boring. It’s so un-fun. It’s so joy-sucking. It’s as bad as the “no screens in bed” thing. Although sunscreen – on balance – is more likely to happen.
Being an adult is unloading the dishwasher until you die.
A never-ending loop. Unloading is clearly worse than loading because loading is generally done incrementally but unloading is a big old push. The horror of opening the dishwasher and finding everything clean. Unless you are in someone else’s house in which case they rush to intercept you because the horror of having everything ‘helpfully’ put away in the wrong place is worse than doing it yourself.
Being an adult is trying and failing to replicate at night the drug-like state you enter during your post-lunch micro-sleep in the loos at work until you die.
Oh the micro-sleep. The slow blink. The head nod and bounce back. The certain knowledge that if someone tucked you up right now you would slumber like sleeping beauty. But at night? Well, it’s all wriggling and panicking and thrashing about literally and metaphorically isn’t it? No drug-like state available at night. Not without actual drugs.
Being an adult is wiping surfaces all day until you die.
Packet of biodegradable wipes on your person all times. Sometimes you use a tissue you’ve just blown your nose on. Also the flannel you’ve just washed your face with. So sue you. As long as it looks clean.
Being an adult is having to have your car serviced and resenting it because WHAT A BORING WAY TO SPEND MONEY, until you die.
Ugh no post spending high here. Just glumness.
Being an adult is your bath never being the right temperature when you first step into it no matter how many times you’ve checked as it’s running until you die.
You turn your back for a second and the bastard bath pixies have made it hotter than hell. You get in and your whole body starts itching. You lift up your arse and then slowly try again. It’s burning, it’s burning, it’s burning…finally you adjust. And then you realise that you are sweating. Which feels counter-intuitive…so you get out. And you’ve failed at bath…
Being an adult is waiting on the phone to be connected to your service provider until you die.
It’s really hard to timetable these calls now because the waiting times are running into hours. Covid apparently. Short-staffed apparently. Also – could they work harder with the music? And also with the ‘your business is valuable’ message to us on a loop? What about some comedy? Or some DIY tips? Or some cookery hacks? Or some sex suggestions? And then they cut you off – supposedly by mistake – after an hour and 20 minutes and you have no one to shout at, you just sit their open mouthed with fury and frustration and defeat? Adulthood. 100% would not recommend.
