The art of ‘adulting’ is not beans in this life. No, it is not.
Many times, an adult-somebody just wants to un-adult. All the nerves and bones in his body are crying out for redemption with an Ibadan accent:
‘Plix, lemme hun-hadot! Lemme jus hun-hadot. Plix! Epp meee!!!!’
Unfortunately, the art of adulting can only be rescinded when one is old and grey. And that in itself isn’t un-adulting. It is more like post-adulting. You should note, however, that post-adulting and pre-adulting are twins. Ahmean, lookarrit this way.
A pre-adult sleeps off on the couch. An adult comes to his rescue, carries him and drops him on a lush mass of foam, and throws a quilt over his head as he delightfully snores. If adult is a nice adult-somebody, a lover of the mushy-mushy, he plants a kiss upon pre-adult’s forehead and turns off the light.
Post-adults aren’t so different. A post-adult will sleep off at the slightest boredom, especially when it’s coming from the TV. Adult, depending on how advanced Post-adult is in age, carries or taps him to go to bed. If adult is a wazzup adult-somebody, he will plant a kiss on Post-adult’s forehead. If he’s an araoko adult-somebody, he will kneel down and/or bow to the sleeping image of the Post-adult.
Either way, the Pre-adult and Post-adult are carefree people, taken care of by the adult-somebody. And you tell me adulting is easy? Commot dia!
At the moment, I want to un-adult. Lemme. I want to un-adult biko. I want to be rid of this pressure to make critical decisions, say no to people with a straight face, keep the house tidy, cook, care for everyone else sometimes at my expense, make lots and lots of money, wake up and get to work early. I just want to eat candy, sing ten-ten, build sand castles and cook imaginary leaf-and-stone soup. I want to play mummy and daddy, play teacher, beat the grasses with a stick and pretend they’re pupils who refused to do homework. I want to eat sweet meals without knowing how they came about. I want to shout ‘Mummyyy!’ when I hear a scary sound at night. I just want to un-adult! Arghh!
Alas, I cannot. I can’t post-adult either, at least not now (not that I even want to at all- forever young dreams on point.) I guess I’m left with just this one choice:
And smile while at it.
Even when you want to cry.
P.S: ‘araoko’ is a Yoruba word that means ‘local’,
photo credits : Google.