Sometimes, it’s great, this adulting.
Groceries and expenses and cooking,
And not breaking into pieces
Because a boy didn’t notice me.
But at other times, not so much fun.
Hearing the word ‘aunty’,
And turning to look, instinctively,
With a disbelief that never quite fades.
Walking with my grown-up smile in place,
Feeling a little undercooked, deep inside,
Not quite ready to be 32,
Hell, still reeling at having turned 30.
Meanwhile, the 20-somethings frolic around me.
Taking their work seriously,
Taking their fun seriously.
And I wonder, what on earth was I doing at 25?
Binge-watching ‘How I met your mother’,
And writing sad poetry, that’s what.
Somebody should have sat me down then,
Warned me that a change was around the corner.
That life would speed up, be idyllic no more.
That the years would tumble and the memories merge
Into a giant composite feeling,
Of love and loss and sweetness and pain.
Until one day, adulthood would announce itself.
Once up a time, I wanted to be a grown up.
How stupid of me.