Adult is not a verb. I am not one to use it as such. But today, I understand.
Today is the company holiday party.
Today, I am reminded that I am an adult, obligated to do adult things. Like attend the company holiday party. Or go to work at all, when what I really want to do is sit on my couch and work on the latest chapter of my novel. Because the characters in my story are closer to me than anyone at work could ever hope to be. They are my friends. Funny. Smart. Intriguing.
Roy in accounting is none of these things.
Roy, with his weird yogurt fetish and passive aggressive glances. Tonight, I must pretend that I enjoy his presence. I must banter with him and Lisa from marketing. And all the other people I am forced to spend forty precious hours a week with. Hours that I will never get back. And for what? To put food on the table. To keep the source of electricity flowing that keeps my laptop consistently charged, ready for me to put down into words all the wondrous imaginings in my head. The ones that distract and scatter me at this job I am forced to hold down. The ones that make me forget what I was working on, or staple a cost report to someone else’s fax without realizing it.
Yes. Tonight, I must attend the company holiday party.
Because I am an adult.
I do not much care for being an adult.