Growing up

I never wanted to be a grown up. Sure, I wanted to be an adult, as in over 21, but a grown-up. Not hardly. I wanted the world without responsibility. A full-on 24 hour party.

I only recently started to refer to myself as a grown-up. At 40ish (well 39). I feel, finally, like I get it. I’m a grown-up and I like being a grown-up. It’s a title. An honor, actually. I feel like I’ve achieved something.

Someone bring me a trophy. It should not have a bowling figure on the top. It should have a star or a giant #1. Oh, it should be engraved as well. With my name and achievement. Something along the lines of:

Barbara Mulvey-Welsh

Grown-up

It’s about damn time

It should sparkle too. A lot. Being a grown-up is hard. Damn it. You get no accolades for doing the right thing. The responsible thing. Yeah, it stinks. You do get personal satisfaction so at least I have that going for me.

It’s time to mount up children of the 60s and fulfill our destiny as grown-ups. No whining, no crying, no bumpers, no helmets. Full on contact grown-up-ness.

It’s pretty cool, actually. But it’s not for the faint of heart.

Who has the balls to join me?

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