All grownsup?

Today I was trying on some slacks and a blouse in the dressing room of Anne Taylor LOFT when the following thought voiced itself in my head, “Don’t buy these, Audrey. They make you look like a grownup.” It was quickly followed with the mental response, “Audrey, you retard. You’re 30. You ARE a grownup.” The first voice was offended by the derogatory use of “retard” and the argument then turned violent, proving that neither voice is as mature as she thinks.

But it got me pondering, what makes someone a grownup? Does wearing a blouse and slacks from the LOFT make me more grown up than the Forever 21 tank tops that I usually buy? Do I have to stop shopping at Forever 21 because I’m 30? When will they create a Forever 31? Anyone? Terrific business opportunity; 31-year-olds have more money.

I used to think that you became a grownup when you had kids of your own. But I know many grownup women that never had kids. Does the fact that I support myself make me a grownup? Does my job make me a grownup? I’m still waiting for people at my office to realize that I don’t know what I’m doing – that I fabricate my competence on a daily basis. But I think everyone thinks that to a certain extent. Does my age make me a grownup?

What proves that I’m not a grownup? Do grownups have tongue pierces? Do grownups dance at rock concerts? Do grownups get so drunk at their own parties that they make out with Robb’s cousin? (that’s an entirely rhetorical question).

I recall the first time I went to a fancy spa. A number of friends had joined together to buy me a massage for my birthday as the $100 was far beyond any of our means at the time. I was probably about 20, and I sat there in the plush bathrobe amidst the other women that were probably ten years to twenty years older than me. I watched them wade in the Jacuzzi and walk in and out of the sauna looking entirely comfortable and mature. And I wondered, when is someone going to figure out that I’m an imposter. That I’m just pretending to be adult with money whose mature enough to sit in a roomful of naked women and not giggle. I enjoyed that feeling, like I was fooling everyone around me into thinking that I belonged.

I get that same feeling sometimes when I’m walking down the streets of Manhattan in my new blouse from Anne Taylor LOFT, my skirt and my heels. I’ve fooled all these people on the streets into thinking I’m a professional. I’m a New Yorker with nice clothes and a job and I know what the hell I’m doing.

As time passes, I’ve walk the streets of Manhattan more often, I’ve lived in New York longer, I’ve gotten older, and I start to believe it myself. That I am a professional. That I DO know what I’m doing. That I am an adult.

And I miss that feeling of having everyone fooled. I wonder if it will ever go away entirely.

I hope not.