Mileposts on the Road to Adulthood

About a week after my twelfth birthday I was standing in my empty bedroom. The furniture I'd owned since I graduated to a big girl bed was downstairs in a moving truck, waiting to be taken to my mom's rental home. The new bedroom set I'd picked out with my dad a few weeks earlier hadn't arrived yet. I traced the butterfly pattern around the wall and declared myself an adult

When I got my driver's license, the first thing I did was take myself for a long drive through the winding mountain roads that led from my dad's house to my mom's house. I put in my Britney CD, turned the volume all the way up, and reveled in my new-found freedom.

Somewhere in the summer between high school and college I accidentally stayed out all night with a guy I had almost dated a few years earlier. I stumbled home as the sun was rising and entered the kitchen to find my dad brewing coffee. He wasn't happy, but I was eighteen. I was moving out soon. There wasn't any punishment he could inflict on me, and we both knew it.

On my twentieth birthday I had a bit of a breakdown. There was a huge party happening, one that actually had very little to do with my birthday. I sat against a wall in shock as the clock rolled past midnight, and I wondered if I'd be able to handle trading in part of my identity. Was I ready to be a twenty-something instead of a dumb teen?

The final Harry Potter book came out shortly after I turned twenty-one. I read it in a few days, tucking it in between other things I had to do. It wasn't quite like The Goblet of Fire, which I read in a single sitting while my dad put food in front of me so I wouldn't starve. But it was as close as I could come to replicating that experience now that I had other responsibilities. When I finished the book I, along with an entire generation, bid goodbye to my childhood. Harry was an adult, and so was I.

Graduation is a bittersweet time for everyone. I was so glad school was over, ecstatic to be done with homework and tests. I was devastated that my boyfriend and I were breaking up. I was terrified that I didn't have a job lined up. Not knowing what came next, I spent three days driving from LA to Denver all by myself, listening to the Dixie Chicks and sobbing the entire time. So much for wide open spaces.

I was cleaning my small apartment, like I did every Saturday morning when I locked onto my gaze in the bathroom mirror. For a second I didn't recognize myself, and I spent a few moments staring at my reflection. Here I was, spending the weekend scrubbing my toilet. I had a job and an apartment. I was paying my bills and taking care of myself. Was this adulthood? Had I really made it?

There's nothing quite like being responsible for another life. My head was killing me, but the dog needed to be walked. So I rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants, and took her to the park. Amazingly enough I felt a lot better when I got home than I had expected to. Responsibility had trumped my hangover in more ways than one.

The moments that I feel like an accomplished, confident adult come more frequently. They're also becoming more mundane. It's forgoing just one more episode of television because I really should wash the dishes first. Waking up to dog shit on the carpet and starting to clean with barely a grumble. Doing research in order to make informed decisions about my money.

The moments that I'm sure I'll find out it was all just a big joke come less frequently, though I've stopped hoping that they'll just disappear altogether. Is that another sign of maturity?

We're at a happy hour with my work colleagues when I find myself talking to my boss's boss. He mentions that he's heard great things about me, and my fiance smiles and says "She's a smart girl". I wait until we get home to correct him. I know it was meant as a compliment, but I'm a woman. It's taken me too long to feel comfortable claiming that label for myself, and now that I do no one is going to take it away from me.